


A Chorus Of Flame And Snow

by BlandGardener



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Eventual Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Male Daenerys Targaryen, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 08:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 92,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlandGardener/pseuds/BlandGardener
Summary: AU Story where Jon and Daenerys are gender-flipped. Jon=Jeyne Snow and she must deal with the life of a bastard on the Wall which is much more dangerous now considering she is a girl, even with protection. Daenerys=Daeron and he must grow into the man he was always meant to be while facing threats that can snuff out his life before it even begins. This will draw elements from the show and the books but mostly the show BUT it will have events that diverge from both AND I don't want to copy paste dialogue from either so I try to change it up as much as possible on that front. This has partially been posted on Fanfiction.net and I'm cross-posting it here as well. Please read and comment.





	1. Flame/Snow

** Jeyne **

 

 

The Starks were one of the Great Houses of the seven kingdoms and the reigning house in the North, with Winterfell as their seat and capitol. Lord Eddard Stark was the head of the Stark family and thus, the warden of the North and a duke to the king. His wife, Catelyn, was from another Great House; Tully. He had five children by her: three sons by the names of Robb, Bran and Rickon and two daughters: Sansa and Arya. Yet, it is also known that Lord Eddard had another daughter; an illegitimate daughter borne to him by a woman he refused to name. Her name was Jeyne Snow; Snow being the surname of all bastards born in the north. However, Jeyne was unique among bastards or as some have said, a uniquely- _loved_ bastard. For as most bastards are kept far away from the noble family to dampen the lord or the lord wife’s deep shame of their existence; Lord Stark’s love for Jeyne is said to be very great indeed. She was never too far nor too near so as to not stoke Lady Stark’s ire. Still, some thought there was perhaps something more to this Jeyne Snow than Lord Stark let on.

 

With a held breath, Jeyne slumped in a way that wasn’t even evident in the motion of her shoulders, elbows or even fingers. It wasn’t ladylike, as the septa often reminded her with a swat of her disciplining rod. Ladies are dignified under the gaze of others and comfort is like a woman’s secret; it should never leave one’s bedchambers. Unlike what was common for most bastards, Jeyne was allowed to participate in most of the activities that Sansa and Arya took part in including schooling and the high arts of ladyship.

She looked about the needlework circle at the other girls, about seven of them. All attempted to appear as proper ladies for Septa Mordane, whom watched them all like a hawk. Little Arya Stark was the youngest there, while Jeyne was the eldest yet it was Arya who was the only one who openly challenged the septa. Jeyne only did so in secret.

Most of the girls were dark-haired, pale-skinned and brown-eyed which were traditional northern features save for Sansa Stark among them. Sansa had long, auburn hair and lively blue eyes that would make any man want her hand as soon as she matured. She was prettier than all the girls in the room and likely than all the young girls in Winterfell. Due to the inherited looks of her mother’s family rather than her father’s, she set herself apart from them all like a golden swan in a flock of geese. Jeyne’s grey eyes caught hers for a moment and Sansa's pretty façade turned into something else. Jeyne wasn’t sure if Sansa hated her or just felt a great pity; still, Jeyne loved her like she loved all the Starks and felt saddened at this. She often wondered when things first soured between the two; she couldn’t quite remember. Jeyne looked away when Sansa’s glare became unbearable.

Septa Mordane went about the room, looking over shoulders and critiquing pieces as the girls did their best embroidered cloth.

“That’s shoddy work” she said to one girl. “What man would take a wife who can’t stitch a simple line? You couldn’t sell this for a copper pin. Untie it and try again. You won’t be dismissed until I’m satisfied.”

“I-I beg your forgiveness, septa.” The girl seemed upset.

“A bit of effort wouldn’t hurt, dearie” Mordane went on with a rueful smile as she padded the girl’s shoulder. “I expect so much from you young women.”

She continued on her slow trek around the room. She hummed some old Winterfell chorus as she looked over everybody’s work, pausing every so often as the girls held their breaths to anticipate harsh criticism. She gasped when she beheld Sansa’s piece.

“Oh, Sansa. How splendid! May I see?”

Sansa nodded gracefully. “Of course, septa.” She raised her cloth to the septa; Sansa had embroidered a nearly finished castle on the cloth.

“I especially like the detail on the windows. Very good, Sansa.”

Sansa beamed. She loved to be praised. Mordane returned the cloth.

Eventually, she made her way to Jeyne and paused again. Jeyne paused and shifted her neck to allow the septa a direct view of her creation.

“Hmph.” Mordane’s only response, before she carried on.

Arya gave her a curious look and craned her neck so as to see what Jeyne had made. Jeyne saw this and relented. Jeyne raised the cloth so Arya could see that she had made a good replica of the Starks’ sigil; a direwolf’s head with spiked neck furs jutting back and upwards. Arya thought it better than whatever Sansa could have done. Jeyne never received praise for anything she did; Arya thought it unfair.

Arya could hear something in the courtyard just outside the keep; Occasional thumping sounds, accompanied by cheers. She could hear the voices of her brothers and men-at-arms. They were practicing archery and swordsmanship; something Arya enjoyed more than anything they could learn from Septa Mordane. Arya gave Jeyne a frown, an almost pleading look. Jeyne quickly looked down at her thread and needles. She grabbed the needle and slashed it down her right palm as she screamed out in pain.

“Jeyne!”

“Jeyne! Are you alright?!”

Everybody looked over as Jeyne winced and held her bleeding hand in pain. One or two came forth to check on her. The others cowered away from the blood; they were but young girls so it was understandable.

“May I please be excused to the heal ward, septa?” Jeyne pleaded in tears.

“I’ll take her!” Arya cried, who wrapped Jeyne’s hand in a cloth and rubbed her arm to comfort her.

“Yes!” Mordane shouted, exasperated with the screaming girls. “Fine! Fine! Just out!”

The two sisters quickly fled the room and made their way down the hall.

“Now, settle down girls!” Mordane went on. “I’ll have a servant girl clean up! Back to your work at once!”

Sansa ignored her for a moment and approached Jeyne’s station. She reached down and picked up the bloody cloth she had embroidered. She saw the sigil of her house, the direwolf, drenched in blood. She swallowed and looked back at the chamber door where Jeyne left.

 

When Jeyne and Arya made it far enough down the hall, Jeyne stifled her tears and the two burst in laughter though they quickly hushed themselves so as to not give themselves away.

Jeyne turned to Arya. “Well, shall we to the courtyard then?”

Arya grinned. “Yes, lets! But wait, what about your hand?”

“Oh?” Jeyne brought up her wrapped hand to her face. “I don’t know, healer, why don’t you take a look?” She reached out and stroked Arya’s cheek with her fingers, who instinctively pushed them away.

“Ah!” Arya cried. “Don’t _touch_ me with it!” Jeyne gave a laugh.

Jeyne turned and took Arya’s hand in her other to lead her to the courtyard. “Come on, little wolf.”

 

Robb loosed his arrow, striking near the center of his target before lowering his bow and looking back at his younger brother, Bran, whom was but nine years old. Robb himself was sixteen, the eldest child and heir to Winterfell.

Bran swallowed. “You expect me … to do _that_?”

“You’ll do fine” Robb assured him, walking over.

He held out his training bow and a modest, though sharp arrow out to him expectantly. Bran swallowed again and Robb clapped him on the right shoulder.

“You can do this, Bran” Robb encouraged as Bran made his way over to Robb’s former position in front of the target.

Bran took a stance with his steadying arm facing the target and firing arm away. He raised the bow just below shoulder level and began to pull his arrow.

“ _Easy_ ” Robb warned. “Widen your feet a bit. Give a slight bend to the knees. Just slight. Remember to breathe but a held breath just before loose. Round your shoulder more and put your nose closer to the bow.”

“Am I _all_ wrong?”

“Just trying to help, little brother.” He looked at Theon, a charge of his father’s, who shared a laugh with him. “Sorry, I’ll just … shut up now.”

Bran attempted to concentrate his shot.

“Oh, just one more thing” Theon volunteered to a groan from Bran and went to him to bend to his ear. “Just so you know, your mother and father are watching.”

The two of them peered up to the hanging above. Just as she said, his lord father and lady mother were spectating, along with several of their trusted men.

Theon tapped his drawn shoulder. “No pressure.”

Bran groaned again and his attention went back to his shot. Just as he was about to send his arrow … _Thhunk_! Another arrow appeared just a needlepoint to the right of Robb’s own. Robb was actually impressed and considered it an even finer shot than his own. Everybody turned and saw Arya Stark with a bow of her own in a stall across the yard. Bran gave her a look and Arya gave a mock curtsy. He immediately dropped everything and gave chase as Arya scurried away. Everybody in the courtyard roared in laughter, even the usually stern Lady Catelyn Stark.

Jeyne, whom had accompanied Arya approached Robb and Theon.

“Ah, dear sister!” Robb greeted as she closed the distance between them.

“Robb.” She said simply, with a smile as he pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her cheek.

They released each other and stood apart. Theon looked at the two of them before looking at Jeyne. “Well, where’s my hug then?”

Jeyne and Robb both shared a chuckle.

 

Up above, Lord Stark was accosted by one of his men-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, with urgent news.

“My Lord!” The Stark party’s collective attention drew to the stairs where Rodrik ascended with haste.

Lord Eddard gave the man a sympathetic look. “What is it, Ser Rodrik?”

“Rangers have caught a deserter at Winterfell’s borders to the north. A Night’s Watch deserter.”

Lord Stark or Ned, as his loved ones and subjects called him at times, shared a knowing look with Catelyn.

“Do you have to, Ned?” she asked with an odd sympathy. She honestly thought the wall to be unnecessarily hard life, even for the foul men that were said to station there.

“He’s a deserter, Cat” Ned answered. “He knew his vows and broke them.”

“Aye, my lady” agreed Lyman Umber, another bannerman. “It’s the law.”

Ned spoke to Lyman. “Have Theon bring Ice. Ensure that it’s sharp and true.”

“Yes, my lord.” He gave a slight bow and took his leave.

“Rance” Ned called to another loyal man.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring Bran and Jeyne along as well.”

Catelyn protested to this as well. “Ned, the boy’s but nine years. He’s much too young.” She had no concern for the girl.

“Not too young to know the duty of a Stark” Ned Stark answered. “Winter is coming, Catelyn. He will need to be ready for that.”

 _Those damn words_ , Catelyn thought, though she dare not speak that. Ned and the men close to him left at that, leaving Catelyn and her personal guards. Catelyn felt helpless at that point with no say in Ned’s decision so she just let her eyes wander. They settled down below in the courtyard, involuntarily on Ned’s bastard daughter.

Catelyn thought Jeyne Snow a peculiar girl; equal parts dour and strong-willed. She often wore muted dark or black colors to match her general glumness, just fine for a bastard she wished to never see. Still, the girl was humble and well-liked by almost everybody which made the whole situation almost insufferable at times. Why couldn’t she be like other bastards and just go away? No, Ned loved her and Catelyn often chided her lord husband for there were times where it appeared that Ned favored the girl over the daughters Catelyn bore him.

Jeyne was plucking Robb’s training arrows from the target when she suddenly froze in place after pulling Arya’s. A chill crept down her spine like an isolated icicle trapped against her bare skin by her own cloak. She looked back to the balcony and found Lady Catelyn glaring right at her. She shivered.

 _Is that what hatred looks like?_ She internally wondered to herself. Jeyne often wondered if she could ever throw Lady Stark’s outright vindictiveness for her right back in her face. She refrained because Lady Stark was the lady of Winterfell and Jeyne, though she was Ned Stark’s daughter, was still a bastard. She considered herself fortunate to receive the privilege she received already and didn’t dare risk it.

Objectively, Jeyne was a fair girl though not nearly the beauty her darling Sansa was; she had the long face and sharp jaw of a Stark with high cheekbones. She had deep gray eyes that were almost black, porcelain skin that camouflaged well to their snowy climate and long, curly hair as dark as burnt oak. The ongoing opinion that Jeyne was more in line with traditional Stark looks as well as resembling the tragic Lyanna Stark was probably what hurt Catelyn the most. She took after the Starks more than any of her children save for wild Arya.

Blinking first, Jeyne tore her eyes away from Catelyn and went about her business. She pulled her arrows and grabbed her bow before leaving the courtyard; Catelyn Stark watched her the entire time.

 

 

** Daeron **

****

_Pentos, Free City of Essos_

He stared out over the city, a tight arrangement of rich manors and baronies, through rare violet eyes. From what he had been told all his life, he was from the great House Targaryen; he was the last male heir and a descendant of Old, Doomed Valyria. As he had also been told, the Targaryens were the rightful rulers of Westeros, the continent of seven kingdoms across the narrow sea to the west. Until weeks prior, it was him and his sister traveling the free cities of Essos and surviving on whatever scraps they could get. Only then, a benefactor found them in Pentos. He gave them board to luxurious bed chambers, adorned them in expensive jewels and clothing and filled them with the finest food and drink either of them had ever had. The _great_ Illyrio Mopatis said he wanted to help them reclaim Westeros; yet, how he intended to do that remained to be seen. He looked down at his hands where every finger had a ring save for his thumbs and pinkies, rings that were slid on his fingers by people he didn’t know. He wore a satin shirt and pants and fine slippers. The same hands and feet were dirtied and ragged not so long before.

“Oooh, little Daaaaeee’!” his sister sang her arrival as she entered his bedchamber. “I have something to show you, little brother!”

Daeron stepped inside the room from the landing as Illyrio’s servants closed the door after Visenya as she entered. Dressed in a fine, sleeveless gown of her own, she approached him with the widest grin he had ever seen on her beautiful, flawless face. She was holding a thin, golden dress across her arms. She stopped just before him. Although young Daeron was so young at thirteen and Visenya was seven years older; they were the same height. She held it out in her arms for inspection.

“What is this?” asked Daeron, not necessarily meaning the dress.

“This is our future.”

“Our future?”

“Yes. Go on. Touch it.”

He reluctantly reached out and felt it. The softest cloth he ever touched that seemed more suitable for decoration than for wear.

“Is this dress see-through?” he questioned.

Visenya chose to ignore that question and took the dress away to lay it upon his bed. She returned to him a few moments later, staring into his violet eyes with her own, absolutely gleaming. She unnerved him because he hadn’t seen her so happy in quite a while if ever and he wasn’t sure how to handle it.

She looked him up and down before taking his hands into her own, playing with the rings on his fingers. “Recite our history, little brother.”

“The long version or the short version?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “The short version.”  


“We are Targaryens. The Targaryens are the rightful rulers of Westeros. Rulers of the seven kingdoms. We ruled it for nearly three centuries until the Usurper stole it from us, slaughtered our family and chased us from our rightful home. The Targaryens are fierce warriors and the highest among men; dragonkin. We are the last dragons.”

Visenya slid the fingers of her right hand between fingers of his left and brought his hand to her mouth and planted a soft kiss on his middle knuckles. She closed her eyes as if it brought her bliss. “The magister honors us, Dae’. He has brought us a great gift.”

 _Illyrio_.

“What does he promise us _now_?”

She opened her eyes and took both of his hands. “We are finally going home.”

“What … what do you mean?”

Her eyes gleamed with joy as she dropped her hands away from him and stepped away to unclasp her dress. It dropped freely from her body almost at once, revealing her pale but curvaceous form to him.

“Vis-“, he began, turning away.

She giggled. “Why do you look away, Dae’? You’ve seen it all before.”

“Yes … we …bathed” he struggled, still turned away. “We were younger then … and homeless!”

She stepped from her dress and went to him; she cupped his chin and forced him to look at her. “Not anymore. I am to be married to a warrior with an army and a means to take the Iron Throne from the bastard Usurper. They will all kneel or face the dragon’s wrath. I will be queen and you … well, you will be a prince but other than that … I haven’t really decided to what to do with you, yet.”

She leaned into him, placing her ample breasts on his chest and slid one of her knees between his legs to whisper into his ear. He could smell the scented oils on her of lilac and sweet oleander.

“You could be my dragonknight” she said as she grasped the back of his neck. “Or would you rather be my _consort?_  Or _both?_ ”

“We’re … siblings” he protested.

“Targaryens have wed brother to sister for centuries to strengthen the bloodline or did you forget your lessons, little brother? You have grown in height and weight; your voice no longer shrills and has deepened to a manly tone and …”

She slid a hand into his pants and cupped his groin, causing a flinch and squirm from him.

“Seven hells” she remarked with a smile, “you are becoming a man before my very eyes, little Dae’.”

“Visenya … please.” He placed a hand on her shoulder for support.  When she felt him try to push off, she forced herself closer.

The blood filled him and caused him to harden. She lengthened him and gave him deep, slow strokes. He whimpered as her stroke fastened and his growing slickness combined with her motions made a wet, reverberating sound that rebounded throughout the room. Just as she pushed him to the peak, she removed her hand and drew a sharp gasp from him.

He lurched and took sharp intakes to catch his breath as Visenya moved back to his bed to her dress.

“You _are_ my little dragon.”

He looked up as she slid her golden dress up her body and slid the sleeves over her shoulders. Every curve was hugged and her nipples protruded obscenely against the thin fabric.

“What do you think, little brother?”

She put her hands on her hips, widening her hips and pushing out her chest in a pose for him. Daeron said nothing as he was still catching his breath and nursing a hard prick he didn’t know how to deal with.

“Ah, nothing to say then? Fine.”

She gathered herself and moved to leave the room, bringing the hand that cradled him to her mouth and licked his sticky seed away.

“My husband will soon arrive. I’ll send in servants to get you dressed shortly while you fix yourself. I expect you to look your best.”

He cursed himself and her as she closed the doors behind her. 

 

 

 

** Jeyne **

 

She was the only girl among them and most girls might’ve felt unsafe or uneasy in that situation, especially when in the presence of nobility, but not Jeyne Snow. Truly, she felt at home anywhere in the north regardless of her company and that had nothing to do with her father or her own noble origins.

Lord Stark, along with his children Robb, Bran, and even Jeyne Snow gathered at the executioner’s block on the cliffs outside the township away from Lord Stark’s innocent subjects. Stark’s soldiers and close men were there as well as the Greyjoy hostage, Theon Greyjoy.

Jeyne held her dear brother, Bran, close from behind for comfort. Bran believed that it was to comfort him but the act of killing didn’t quite sit well with her so holding him close indeed settled her mind as well. Her arms were around his stomach and she pulled him even tighter as they brought the man to the blocks.

Like most others that shared his fate, he was raving and offering excuses. She gathered that his name was Gared. Supposedly, he was a ranger from the Wall which upset her even more. She had the highest respect for the Night’s Watch but this man was ruining it with his lunacy.

“I’m not craven! White Walkers approach the Wall! I saw them! We are no match! We must –“

He stopped as they pushed him down to his knees and he looked up at Lord Stark from the block and fell silent. He could see a man intent on doing his duty and knew his words and true intentions didn’t matter.

Ned beckoned to Theon, whom brought forth his sheathed greatsword. Ned pulled the large, cross-hilted traditional sword from its sheath, drawing a sharp song as its edge slid against leather.

“Would you have final words?” Ned asked.

The ranger swallowed. “I know I deserted. I should’ve gone to the wall to warn them but … just please send word to my family. Tell them I’m no coward.”

Ned nodded at this.

Jeyne whispered to Bran’s ear. “Don’t look away. Your father intends you to see.”

In a circular motion to manipulate the sword’s weight, Ned brought the sword up and above his head. In a great, rounded swing, Ned brought the sword down and severed the deserter’s head in one go.

“A fine execution, my lord” said Theon as he took the sword from Lord Stark to clean it with a wolf skin while another lifted the deserter’s head to place it in a weave basket.

“Send a raven to his family” Ned ordered. “His family will bury their son.”

He then rubbed his gloved hands together and took a look at his children. Robb, who straightened, seemed honored by his lord father. Stunned Bran was cradled from behind by Jeyne; he knew the boy had saw just as he intended and he internally thanked Jeyne for it.

“That’s a good lad” Jeyne said as she leaned down and kissed Bran’s head.

 

The Stark party began their trek back towards the Winterfell township through the wolfswood only to take a mild rest to make water and have a bite. Jeyne herself took a bite of cattle jerky from her pack and took a hard chew. It was seasoned well and pleasing to the taste. She moved to the sound of flowing water and found a stream flowing between mossy trees. She followed it until fell to a drop into a rock trail and saw that it flowed clean.

She tugged one of her gloves off and cupped her hands; she brought them to her lips to sip.

“I pissed in that, you know” Theon’s voice stopped her.

She did hesitate but she _had_ seen the water flow from the rocks and knew it was untainted.

“No, you didn’t” she said simply and gulped it. The ice cold water refreshed her and sated her dry throat. She pulled one of her leather skins and began to fill it.

“No, I didn’t” Theon said with a chuckle, looking around. “Still, I do have to piss and the thought of you makes it quite hard to aim. Care to hold my cock for me?”

Jeyne finished filling her skin. She knew Theon didn’t dare insult the virtue of Sansa or any noble girls in Winterfell but Jeyne was a bastard so of course, he teased and took advantage. She could tell Lord Stark and make Theon’s life hell but she was no frilly lady and could fight her own battles. She could play whatever game Theon wanted to play and beat him at it.

She took a gulp of her water, corked her skin and stood to face him.

“Go fuck yourself, Greyjoy. You come near me with that thing and I’ll cut it off and make you swallow it.”

She turned and began to make her way back to the Stark party. With a smirk, he followed.

“Still a virgin, eh?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you, Theon.”

“Why save yourself?” Theon asked as he hopped over a branch in his path. “What do you think? A noble will sweep you off your feet and whisk you away to his tower? You’re not Sansa.”

She climbed up ahead of him. “All I ask for is a man who is honest and kind.”

He guffawed. “Fart on that. You’re a bastard girl! No man would sully his reputation to marry you, highborn or peasant, even if you are kin to Stark. Not in this lifetime or any other. They may fuck you but marry you? No.”

She swiftly turned on him and had her dagger from her waistbelt to his throat in a second. “I’ve heard enough out of you, Greyjoy. Another word from your tongue and I shall have it.”

He raised his hands in surrender and smirked. “I’m just sayin’; why not have fun with your status? You can take your pleasure as you wish. I can be your first. It will be enjoyable, I promise.”

With some hesitation, she put her dagger away. “Save it for your brothel whores. Their standards do seem to be low.”

She turned and continued on her path. He followed again.

“When I fuck them, I often imagine you. Your pretty face; that slender waist; the brea-“

“Shut up, fool!”

She had stopped in place and pointed ahead of them.

 

Ned and Bran were apart from most of his party save for a few guards. He wanted a moment to speak to his son.

He knelt down and drew Bran close with a hand on the nape of his neck.

“Do you understand why that had to be done, Bran?”

“I-I think so” Bran said. “He deserted the Night’s Watch? And that’s against the old laws. But …”

“But what, son?

“Do you think he spoke truth? Of the White Walkers?”

“The White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years, Bran.”

“So, he lied?”

“Madness can blind a man to the truth. I believe he saw what he wanted to see.”

Bran was about to respond when they were interrupted by shouts in the nearby wood.

“Lord Stark! Lord Stark!” Voices of his soldiers and his daughter, no doubt.

Ned gave Bran a reassuring squeeze to the left shoulder before ushering him to his feet and towards the shouting.

 

When they arrived to the source of the shouting, they found Jeyne, Robb and the rest of the Stark party peering down at a fallen great stag lain on its side. One of its antlers had snapped off and its midsection was ripped wide open with its guts spilled out.

“What could’ve done this, father?” Robb asked. “A mountain lion? A bear?”

Lord Stark thought on it for a moment and then shook his head. “No, those animals don’t run in these woods.”

“What then?”

It was Jeyne who heard it first. Soft, animalistic whines in the distance drew her towards them in a run.

“Jeyne!” Robb called after her and followed, along with the others.

When they caught up with her, she was kneeling at the corpse of a monstrous creature. It appeared to be a wolf, only it was almost three times larger; a beast of mythic proportions. Jeyne’s wolfskin cloak covered her front.

Ned called out to her. “Jeyne! Away from there!”

“She’s dead, my lord!”

“She?”

“Aye” she answered and stood up, cradling two wolf cubs in her arms and displayed them to the others. “And a mother, too.”

Ned approached cautiously to look upon them and the corpse. There were three more cubs beside the two Jeyne held, trying fruitlessly to suckle their departed mother’s dried teets. He saw that there was a broken stag antler in the beast’s neck.

“Ah, a mutual kill” Lord Stark said with wonder.

“A wolf, father?” asked Bran.

“No, Bran” his father answered. “A direwolf.”

“I thought direwolves never make it south of the wall” somebody said.

“Well, this one did.”

Jeyne knelt down and set her two cubs down with the others. She watched as they immediately padded over and tried to shove their way past their siblings for a tit. She gave a sad smile.

“Can we keep them, father?” asked Bran.

“No, Bran” Ned replied. “Direwolves are not made for pets. They’ll die slow deaths without their mother’s care as well. Theon, do them kind mercy.”

Ned then turned to leave as Jeyne gave him a startled look.

“Right, then” Theon said, moving over to the cubs. “Come on then, little pups.”

Theon reached over Jeyne and pulled up a cub by the scruff of his neck. He had a ready dagger in his other hand.

“No, father!” Bran pleaded.

“Put it down, Greyjoy” commanded Robb.

“I take orders from your lord father, not you!” sniped Theon.

Jeyne stood up then and gave a slight bow to Lord Stark. “My lord! Direwolves are a sigil of your house, are they not? Is this not a sign? An omen of good fortune from the Old Gods? They smile on you and yours. There are five Stark children and I count five wolfcubs here. They were meant to have them.”

She took the cub from Theon’s grasp in two arms. “And they are wolf _cubs_ , not pups.”

She then went over and handed it off to Bran, who took it in his arms with a wide grin.

Ned hesitated, before giving an uneasy glance at Jeyne. He then looked at Robb, then Bran. “Fine. But you will feed and care for them. You and nobody else. Expect no help from servants.”

Jeyne went over and scooped up more cubs and handed them off to Robb and others. They turned and began to leave. Theon put his dagger away and began to depart as well.

Bran stepped towards Jeyne, stroking his direwolf’s head. “What of you, Jeyne? Where’s your wolf?”

Jeyne smiled and ruffled Bran’s hair. “I’m Jeyne Snow. I’m not a Stark, remember? Run along now. Your lord father will leave you behind.”

Theon then turned after Bran scampered past him. Jeyne made to follow him when she heard another soft whimper behind her. She turned back and stumbled trying to find where it was coming from. She went to her knees and reached one arm deep beneath a log a few yards away from the direwolf mother and felt something soft in her glove’s grasp. She pulled it up into her arms and held it up in both hands to look it over.

It was another wolfcub, only this one was much smaller and thin from lack of nourishment. It was snowy white and had ruby red eyes that struggled to stay open as it tried to avoid her gaze in seeming fear. An albino. A rejected just like her. It had settled beneath the log, away from the world’s cruel grasp. Her heart instantly melt for the poor thing. She looked at its genitalia. A girl.

“Ha!” Theon laughed. “Looks like you got a pup after all. Runt of the litter. How fitting for a bastard.”

He then turned and followed the party.

She then turned her gaze back to her new cub. “Well, that’s fine. You were hiding, weren’t you? Because they didn’t love you. Well, I’m not loved either. But I’ll love _you_. We can hide away together; my little ghost.”

 

 

** Daeron **

****

The Magister Illyrio had arranged this. Beautiful Visenya and her young brother Daeron stood beside him in his great courtyard in anticipation of her husband-to-be, the great Khal Drogo. Yet, Visenya wasn’t accustomed to waiting on _anyone_ , let alone a savage horselord.

“Where is he, Illyrio?” Visenya demanded to know. “Why does he keep his wife waiting?”

Illyrio held out a hand to calm her fire. “The Dothraki aren’t ones to acquiesce to anybody’s schedule but their own. Ah, do you hear that, your grace?”

Daeron heard it; the sound of quickening hoofbeats on the ground; galloping steeds. Four dark, tattooed men with long, braided hair swiftly approached through Illyrio’s extensive garden on stallions of brown and white. They wore pants and shoulder harnesses of boiled leather as well as gold medallions in their braids and smoky ash smeared on their eyelids and faces. Daeron quickly took notice of the largest man in the lead; he was the stockiest, tallest and had the longest braid that reached to his left mid-thigh as he seated on his horse.

Visenya bent to Daeron’s ear. “That is my husband-to-be, the Khal Drogo. He is a savage who probably smells of piss and horseshit but he is the greatest killer on this side of the Narrow Sea. The Dothraki are prideful warriors and cut off their hair in shame when they are defeated; Khal Drogo’s hair has never been cut. He will take us home, brother.”

As the Dothraki came to a halt before them, Illyrio walked down the steps to greet them graciously. He spoke to them in some foreign tongue that Daeron didn’t understand but then Drogo looked up from Illyrio, directly at Daeron and the two locked eyes. Illyrio then began to speak in the Common Tongue.

“May I present my honored guests? Daeron of House Targaryen, the third of his name and rightful King of the Andals and the First Men. His sister and your bride-to-be, Princess Visenya of House Targaryen, namesake of the legendary Dragon Queen.”

Visenya straightened as if filling with pride at the mention of her name in association with her honored ancestor. She expanded her chest through trained breathing and made it appear that her breasts swelled in size as she started down the steps. Daeron noted that her hips carried a seductive sway that he had never seen her use as she made her way to Khal Drogo. She stopped a short distance from him and folded her hands in front of herself in a demure manner and gave him a soft smile. He studied her for a short moment, staring directly into her violet eyes before looking up and down her body. He circled his horse around her in a trot and took in her entire form with his studious gaze. He then turned his horse around and stormed right out of the courtyard and away from Illyrio’s estate with his men following suit.

Visenya, stunned, started to run after them before she turned angrily and moved back to Illyrio. “What was _that_?”

“The ceremony is over” Illyrio said with a steady nod.

“Ceremony?” she spat. “He didn’t do anything! He barely looked at me! Did he even _like_ me?”

“Oh, he liked you” Illyrio said as he turned away from her. “If he didn’t, we’d _all_ be headless right about now.”

Visenya stopped at that, stunned to silence.

 

The three of them moved to the high landing, a high ledge that oversaw Illyrio’s garden. Visenya and Illyrio stood together at the balcony while Daeron stood a bit apart from them.

“Soon, you will cross the Narrow Sea and take back your father’s crown” Illyrio told her. “The citizens of the Seven Kingdoms give silent prayers for your health and soldiers secretly bare your coat of arms in secret, awaiting your return.”  


Visenya smiled at this. “When will we marry?”

“Soon, your grace. The Dothraki don’t sit still for long. Drogo will want to have you before his departure for new lands.”

The two moved to walk along the landing so Daeron turned and followed them.

“Good” nodded Visenya. “And how large is Drogo’s army?”

“Forty thousand strong, your grace.”

Visenya gave a low giggle. “This pleases me. Magister, you have proven yourself to be a great ally of the crown. You will be greatly rewarded when we return home to Westeros.”

Illyrio gave a short bow. “You honor me, your grace.”

Daeron then stopped and swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t marry him, sister.”

The two stopped and looked at him. He went on. “It is as you say, he is a savage. Do you truly believe he will honor our agreement and take us home?”

Visenya walked to him. “I have my ways with men, _brother_ , if you must know. I will _make_ him honor his agreement.”

The way she looked at him made him falter. “I’m sorry; I just want to go home.”

“As do I. But for that, we need an army. Khal Drogo provides us that army.”

“We don’t need an army, sister.” He reached for her hand and took it into his own, stroking the back of her fingers. “We only need each other. We don’t even need the throne. We can just … live. We can settle; find some land and get rich and fat. Tell our children of our great adventures and continue our honored line, in peace. We may never have peace if we go back this way.”

Visenya yanked her hand away. “You expect me to live like commonfolk?” She yanked his long, silver hair in front of his face, jerking his head towards her. “Do you see this? The hair of royalty! We can never hide! Nor should we ever! The dragon flies above! Meaning we are above all beings in this world!”

She threw his hair away, causing him to stumble back. “You will not be King when we return home” she said with finality. “I am elder and I know what we lost better than you. You will step aside and allow me my birthright. I will be Queen Visenya Targaryen and you will be prince and a consort if I decide you deserve it. But if you ever betray me or come to me with this again, you’ll not live long enough to see it. Do I have your fealty?”

“Yes.” He said low.

“I’m sorry? I don’t believe that’s how you swear fealty.”

With apprehension, Daeron lowered his right knee to the ground and bowed his head to her; this brought a satisfied sigh from her. “I swear fealty to you sister. Please forgive me.”

She extended her right hand towards him, particularly the ruby-encrusted gold ring on her forefinger. He grasped her hand and brought her ring towards him for a kiss.

“Rise, brother.” He did. “Remember: if you think you might ever say anything that will upset me; just keep your fucking mouth shut.”

She then turned on her heel and walked away with Illyrio to continue talking strategy. Daeron remained there, glassy-eyed. He clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into one of his palms and drew blood. It was times like this that he resented the power she had over him.

 

 

** Jeyne **

****

 

The icy chill permeated her stony room. Every time a limb or part of her face dared leave the safe confines of her blankets, the cold attacked. She knew that she should’ve been asleep but she couldn’t stop peering over her bear fur to peer at the wool basket next to her bed, bundled with small covers and furs of its own, housing little Ghost within. Her precious cub was sound asleep. She didn’t think she had heard a sound from Ghost since the whimpers that allowed her to be found. She would’ve thought her dead, save for the very slight rise and fall of the furs in the basket.

She heard a series of soft knocks on her door. Someone trying to be quiet, no doubt. Jeyne had a feeling who it was but she played at being asleep just to be safe. She closed her eyes as the door creaked open.

“Jeyne?” the voice whispered. Arya’s voice, the damned girl.

“Arya, what are you doing out and about?” Jeyne whispered back. “Go back to bed!”

“I can’t sleep. Can I lay in with you?”

Arya used to sneak into Jeyne’s room to sleep often when the girl was younger, to everyone’s dismay. She did so at a decreasing rate as she got older but it still happened from time to time. It was no secret that Arya favored Jeyne over her trueborn siblings. Jeyne felt bad for the poor girl, honestly, for Arya wanted so badly to live a life like Jeyne without the attentions of Septa Mordane and others. She wished to avoid being pigeon holed into the life and routine of a highborn lady; she didn’t realize that Jeyne would take a life like that in an instant and more if it meant having a place next to her father.

“No. Go back to your room. _Now_.” Jeyne turned away from her and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she realized that her door didn’t close and there were no retreating footsteps. She turned back towards her doorway and saw the darkness of Arya’s form still standing there. Jeyne sighed.

“Fine” she said, lifting the right side of her covers to make room. “Come on, then.”

Arya closed the door softly and scampered over to Jeyne’s bed to leap in. Jeyne sighed as Arya excitedly shuffled to get under the covers and snuggle up close to Jeyne. In Arya’s struggle, Jeyne felt Arya’s ice cold feet graze against her own bare ankles. She gasped.

“Are you insane, child?” Jeyne whispered, trying to grab Arya to settle her. “You came to me barefoot? You’ll catch cold.”

“We are Starks, remember? We wear the cold like clothing.”

“ _Please_.” Jeyne said with an eye roll as she padded the covers over Arya to tuck her in.

Arya scooted closer when Jeyne settled down so that they faced each other and were almost nose to nose. Arya pulled Jeyne’s arm over her shoulder and snuggled close.

Jeyne tried to sleep but Arya didn’t allow it.

“Jeyne?”

“Hmm?”

“Where did Robb find the wolves?”

Jeyne paused, confused. “…hmm?”

Arya repeated her question.

“They said Robb found the wolves?”

“Yes … he did … didn’t he?”

Jeyne paused. She shouldn’t have been surprised. One of the truths of being a bastard is never doing anything noteworthy. It may or may not have even been Robb’s doing. She reminded herself that it didn’t matter. “Aye … he did. In the wolfswood on our return.”

“I named mine Nymeria. After the great warrior Princess of Dorne.”

“A fine name. And you’re caring for her well, I hope.”

“Yes, I fed her and everything. She did shit on my floor and father made me clean it.”

They both giggled at that.

Arya went on when they settled. “I still love her, though. What did you name yours?”

“I named her Ghost.”

“Ghost? Why Ghost?”

“Because she’s as silent as one. And she’s an outcast just as I am.”

“I wish you were my sister”, Arya suddenly blurted out.

Jeyne’s eyes went wide. “I believe I _am_ your sister.”

Arya gave pause at that. “No, I mean … I wish my mother was yours. It’s so unfair how she treats you. Sansa too. They refuse to see you like I see you. How great you are.”

Jeyne’s eyes watered but she closed them and patted Arya’s head. “It’s fine. Now go to sleep.”

“Did you hear that Lord Jon Arryn died?” Arya said after a short while. “Father’s old friend.”

“Yes, I have. Yes, my lord has been quieter than usual.”

“Also, the king is on his way to Winterfell on the kingsroad.”

“Ah, I hadn’t heard that one. Well, it hasn’t anything to do with me.”

Arya stopped and stared at Jeyne’s face. Her eyes were closed and she looked so graceful; at peace. She thought her prettier than Sansa though most disagreed.

“Jeyne? Why don’t you sing anymore?”

Jeyne reached over as if to caress Arya’s face but instead feigned and pinched the bridge of her nose instead. Arya yelped and Jeyne gave a soft laugh.

“I said go to sleep, little wolf” Jeyne said with a smile. Finally, Arya did.

 

Jeyne rarely had dreams that she could remember beyond a feeling by wake. That night, however, she found herself back in the wolfswood in her favorite midnight blue dress with matching gloves, snow boots and a short cloak with cowl to cover her neck and shoulders. She leaned against on the trunk of a great heart tree straddling her great black harp to her left, fitted snuggly between her body and the snow-covered ground.

The snow that fell in a steady flurry and occasionally carried a blue luminescence, magical in its rarity. She felt no cold though she slowly recognized that she should. She looked out in front of her and saw an audience had formed before her. A crowd of pale, oddly moonlit men in shimmering armor of the most beautiful colors of the spectrum and whom had unnatural, glimmering blue eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks though she had no idea why. One of the men stood up; his skin was unnaturally blue and dark as if frost bitten and long dead. He wore something akin to a crown of spikes atop his head. He raised his arms to her as if beckoning her to play.

She turned to her harp and tugged loosed her gloves, only to realize her skin was just as frozen and rotten as theirs. Her long nails were black and cracked and threatened to separate from her fingers. Perhaps that was why the mood seemed morose.

Still, she flexed her fingers; they were still as loose and limber as always. When she plucked a string, its vibration resonated with her heartbeat; she always did consider the harp a limb of hers, same as the bow. The melody she played was a decidedly upbeat one though the mood was somber so it seemed wrong. Then, she remembered when she sang: _When it were ice and steel met, it were the others that fell_ ; the song she played was “The Night that Ended”, a song she had never played nor sung but had heard plenty of times. Why dream of it? And in that scenario? There wasn’t much else to the dream that she retained save for the melody.

She rose from her bed to see that little Ghost was scratching at her door to be let out. Arya still slept next to her on her front. Her eyes still watered; she sniffled and wiped her tears away. She took the time to look at her hands and skin, noting that she was still a lively pigment and not rotting. _Thank the old gods_.

 


	2. Moon's First Kiss/Winter's Daughter

** Daeron **

 

 

It was the day he had been dreading as soon as he knew it destined; He hardly slept in misguided attempts to keep it at bay. Yet, there he sat, cross-legged at his sister’s side and yet away from her, beside Illyrio Mopatis. His eyes turned away from the large Khal Drogo and his sister by his side in truth. He couldn’t bear to look at her for long. She was regal and beautiful as ever in the same dress she demonstrated to him at the magister’s estate; the same dress he hated to see her wear because it revealed her allure to any man with eyes and the shallowest of courage. His entire life she had told him that they were meant to be together; _for_ each other. Yet, she was marrying another man right in front of him. What was he to do after that?

He turned and watched the Dothraki killers intermingle amongst the congregation of wealthy merchants and magisters. The two groups were so unlike that it seemed comical to him. Of course, he then thought of the contrast of the pale Targaryen skin against the deep bronze of Essosi residents. He watched as several Dothraki women flailed frantically to the beat of bison-skin drums, doing what he guessed could be called dancing. The sound of buzzing drew his attention to the feast. Smoked gazelle meat, boar and horseflesh that was attracting a swarm of flies from being left out all day; it was stacked in a nearby trough. Daeron looked back to the women, who were now being dry-fucked in the midst of their dance by drunk Dothraki men right in front of every patron there. He realized he couldn’t relate to these people; and these were the people they were to take with them to Westeros.

He half-turned to Magister Illyrio. “That’s inappropriate for a wedding, isn’t it?”

“The Dothraki are a passionate people. The marriage of their khal is a joyous occasion. The only ceremony they hold where nobody is usually killed outside Vaes Dothrak. Unless, it’s over a woman of course.”

Illyrio pointed out a man who dragged away one of the dancers just so he could rip her thong away and have his way with her. He began fucking her in earnest from behind to cheers, right there in front of his sister. Another Dothraki immediately stepped behind him and slit his throat with his arakh, a crescent-shaped blade, sending blood hurtling to the right and splashing the girl as well. He hastily tossed his body to the side and tore off his pants; he gripped the girl by her hips and began fucking her in his victim’s place. The girl was unfazed by the violence and began bucking her hips backwards to meet his thrusts. Daeron was stunned and ultimately decided not to comment on the matter.

He looked back towards the pillars and saw that guests were beginning bring gifts to his sister. He shuffled forward past Illyrio to get a better look.

A golden-robed merchant with various rubies and sapphires on his wares approached the newly-wed pair and set a chest before them. He reached inside and pulled several, dark-skinned snakes from inside. He raised them towards Visenya as they coiled along his fingers and wrists; she visibly recoiled and gave Drogo a look, whom hadn’t given her a single glance up to that point and still didn’t. A moment later, he reached back down to slide the snakes back into his box and retreated away. One of the khal’s men stepped forth and retrieved the box; he placed it in a growing pile with the other gifts, which was mostly jewels and gold medallions.

Daeron noticed that the man usually stayed at Drogo’s side and recognized him from the courtyard the day Drogo and Visenya were introduced.

Sensing his curiosity, Illyrio gave him some details. “That is Qotho, one of the khal’s bloodriders. Bloodriders are a khal’s most trusted warriors. There are traditionally three. They are by his side always; they share food, drink, war and even their women but never horses. You see horses are like the heart to them, most sacred treasure beyond even riches … and wives.”

“Are you saying that savage will value his _horse_ more than my sister?”

“That is just his way, your grace” Illyrio offered apologetically.  

Daeron then noticed a modestly dressed blonde woman approach Visenya. She wore neither the soft, windy dress of an Essosi woman nor the tattered, animal skin of a Dothraki. She wore a simple, cream-yellow gown and boots that seemed better suited to the west than Essos. She was flanked by a light-armored, bronze-skinned soldier that wore a feathered helm that was double-plated in the neck. Daeron recognized the man as an Unsullied; Illyrio kept enough of them around that he could recognize one on sight but he didn’t know the woman. He decided that she was handsome but her weathered and sundried face showed faint signs of being a beauty in more youthful days.

“Who is she?” Daeron asked Illyrio.

“Jorah Mormont. She hails from your home continent, Westeros. She served your mother, Queen Rhaella for many years. The Unsullied at her side is her slave and bodyguard, Black Bear.”

Surprisingly, Khal Drogo even greeted Jorah.

“<Always a brighter day when I see those wide hips, Mormont.>” Drogo greeted in Dothraki.

Visenya giggled.

Jorah and Black Bear bowed before the pair.

“<Khal and Khaleesi>” Jorah greeted. “<Many fortunes upon your union.>”

Drogo gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. Jorah then took three books from Black Bear and stepped toward Visenya to present them.

“Khaleesi, I offer books of the histories and many songs of the seven kingdoms. I also offer my eternal service as well as the sword of my sworn protector, Black Bear of the Unsullied.”

Visenya hesitantly reached out and took the books from Jorah’s grasp and nodded. “You’re well met, Lady Mormont. I humbly accept your service and … your gifts.”

Jorah bowed again. “Please, khaleesi, just Jorah; if you will.”

Visenya smiled at this. “As you wish.”

Jorah and Black Bear took their leave from Visenya and Drogo. To Daeron’s dismay, Visenya carelessly flung the books into her gift pile as soon as Jorah turned her back. He watched as a few loose pages scattered on the steps from one the books when it landed. Still, Jorah sat down next to Daeron, either not noticing this or pretending. Black Bear sat on the other side of her, silent and alert.

Daeron turned to her as she immediately nodded to him and greeted, “Your Grace.”

“I hear you served my mother.”

“Aye” she replied. “I was a lady-in-waiting to your queen mother for a time.”

“ _Aye_ ” Daeron softly repeated, tasting and playing with the word on his tongue. “Aye. You’re an Andal. I don’t believe I’ve ever met an Andal woman before.”

“No, your grace?”

“I think I would like to hear all I can about the west from you and of my family. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Of course. I do serve you. You above all; even above the khaleesi if you don’t mind my saying. You are the rightful king.”

Daeron gave a half-smile at that and turned back to the wedded pair. It would probably be best to not parade Mormont’s true allegiance before his sister. She wouldn’t take kindly to it and something about Mormont made him want to protect her. She was a westwoman and more than that, an ally and decidedly motherly. He saw all this about her despite just meeting her. It was then that Illyrio motioned to one of his slaves. Two slaves brought forth an even larger chest before Visenya and her husband-to-be.

“ _My_ gift, khaleesi, which I am most certain you will find most splendid of all.” He motioned to them and they pulled the chest open and revealed three large, colored and scaled oval stones seated upon straw grass and the velvet lining of the box.

Daeron only saw them from the side and craned his neck to get a better view. Drogo sighed and smiled at a Dothraki jest from Qotho, clearly bored with the festivities. Visenya stood up and drew near the scaled delights.

“Dragon eggs, khaleesi” Illyrio proclaimed. “Long ago discovered in the Shadow Lands of Asshai. They no longer gestate I’m afraid and are in fact petrified as stone. Still, I saw them best rendered to your possession given your … proclivities towards dragons.”

Visenya looked them over; her violet glare intensified over the precious stones. There was one of a deep leafy green, one of deep scarlet and one of a light cream colour; each contoured toward a blacker shade near the base. She reached down and cradled the cream egg in her hands and brought it in for a closer look under her heart.

She looked at Illyrio. “Stone eggs. All but useless to me but still …” She allowed that egg to fall from her hands back into place along with the others inside the chest with a thud. Daeron winced at her carelessness.  “… they make a fine treasure” she carried on. “I accept your gift.”

He graciously smiled and gave a half bow. He motioned for his slaves to take the chest away.

At that moment, Drogo rose to his feet, his long braid scraping the ground as he did so. All the whispers and motion that may have been occurring at the ceremony immediately stopped. He walked over to his bride and held out his hand expectantly. She looked up and reluctantly took it, rising to her feet. He walked her over to a cleared path just as an Essosi horse handler drew Drogo’s mustang and a silver stallion towards them by their reins.

“What is happening?” Daeron asked Mormont.

“This is the equivalent of a Dothraki bedding. The gift of horse is among the Dothraki’s highest honors. They will first ride together as khal and khaleesi. Then he will take her for the first time as the sun sets with the stars as audience. The ‘moon’s first kiss’ as they call it.”

“ _No_ ” it was so low that it was barely audible.

She looked at him, straining to hear, “What was that, your grace?”

All of the guests stood and gathered towards the khal and khaleesi as they approached their horses.

“A gift from the khal himself” Illyrio gestured to the silver, “a silver of your very own, khaleesi.”

Visenya went to the silver and carefully reached out to stroke its fine, platinum mane that she internally compared to her own. “It’s lovely.”

She turned to Drogo and said “Thank you.” He only gave her a dumbfounded look and glanced at Illyrio uneasily. “Thank … you.” She realized that he didn’t comprehend and turned to Illyrio herself. “How do you say ‘Thank you’ in Dothraki?”

Illyrio wrung his hands together but looked lost in how to respond. It was Jorah Mormont who responded. “Khaleesi, there are no Dothraki words for that phrase.”

Visenya nodded and said, “I see.” She then looked to the khal and gave him a seductive grin and continued to stroke the silver. Drogo reached over and grabbed Visenya by the hips; he handedly lifted her up above his head and on to the horse mount even as she was a few over five and a half feet tall, decidedly tall for a woman. She yelped in surprise but giggled at the rough handling. Drogo leapt onto his own mustang beside her.

Daeron went to Visenya and grabbed her bare calf. She looked down at his hand first, before drawing her eyes up to his face. “Visenya. _Don’t do this_. We can run away from here and find another way.”

Visenya looked down at him with a spiteful glare. “I have an army now. I’m not running anywhere. Now take your hand off of me, little prince. I am the queen.”

Reluctantly, Daeron removed his hand and stepped away. He watched as Drogo took the silver’s rein and led Visenya in turning away with his horse. The Dothraki erupted in cheers and what sounded like warcries at the forthcoming consummation.

Daeron looked at Jorah, before walking past her; he pointedly refused to watch as his sister and her khal left the makeshift temple to fuck in the outskirts of the Pentos drylands.

He returned to the overhang where she wed and looked out over the horizon as the sun drew down.

 

Several days later, Drogo’s khalasar continued their travels east to the Dothraki Sea and Vaes Dothrak, something Daeron knew would have frustrated Visenya to no end; that is, if she wasn’t preoccupied with other things.

The khalasar were preparing to make camp in the wild plain just beyond the Free Cities; Daeron rode a meager painted steed at Jorah’s side, who rode one as well. Black Bear was just behind them. The three rode a distance behind but within eyesight of Visenya’s silver. He could see her bruised arms and legs that slipped out occasionally from her gown, though she pulled it over them as often as she could. She winced constantly and swayed on horseback; she also struggled to walk on foot when she did so.

“My sister suffers, Jorah.” Daeron said to her.

“I see, your grace.”

“That monster.”

“Easy. This is Khal Drogo’s khalasar. Words spoken against him by an outsider may be seen as a challenge.”

Daeron huffed.

A few moments later, Visenya brought her silver to rest; she craned her neck and groaned in pain. Daeron, Jorah and Black Bear came to a halt as well.

Daeron reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a piece of stripped, jerked meat of a deer. He extended it to Jorah. “Please take this to my sister, but don’t say it was from me.”

With a moment’s hesitation, Jorah nodded and took it. “As you wish.”

Wordlessly, Jorah brought her horse over to settle next to Visenya. Daeron watched as Jorah offered her the meat. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see Visenya smack the meat from Jorah’s hand and spit on the ground where it landed.

Daeron sighed and looked at Black Bear. “Well, there’s a dragon in her yet.”

“Yes”, agreed Black Bear.

 

After the khalasar had made camp, Jorah found Daeron resting alone on a cloak in the grass; he was chewing on deer jerky while reading from one of her books. She came from behind and peered down to where his eyes fell when she saw he was too distracted to notice her. She swallowed hard when she realized he was on a chapter focusing on the North. She clasped her hands in front of her and bowed.

“Your grace, your sister is bedded down and rested. I have seen that her handmaidens have treated and oiled her wounds. She seemed soothed.”

He flinched, startled at her sudden appearance and turned to look at her.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” She looked up at his words. He smiled; something she noticed he didn’t do often. It was a beautiful thing, his smile, and she was sure many young maids would swoon at the sight of it.

“Would you please sit with me, Jorah?” he offered, shifting to make room for her on his cloak.

“Your grace?”

“Please.”

Jorah gathered her skirt and obliged, sitting with her legs strewn to the side in front of Daeron who laid on his own side. She felt foolish, a middle-aged woman grazing next to a striking boy aged ten and three as if they were young lovers, snacking in the countryside and making promises of a future love to fulfill. Her imagination often got the best of her still. She mentally reprimanded herself.

“Deer meat?” he offered a long strip of jerky to her.

“Thank you, your grace” she said shakily and took it. He watched her casually as she yanked a piece of it off with her teeth and set to chew it. His eyes shifted past her and she craned her neck to follow his gaze. They watched the khalasar finish settling camp; women took their babes to a nearby river to gather water; men staked tents into the ground with wooden mallet tools; some hung deerskin on the tents for further protection from the elements and set the firesite at the epicenter of camp.

“I remember when we were young” Daeron went on, “my sister and I were driven from our lord’s home in Braavos. The only man loyal to my family. When he died, his servants cast us out and left us with _nothing_. I was but _five_. My first memories. We have been unsettled ever since. I actually admire the Dothraki. They make wandering look far more organized than we ever did.”

Jorah looked at Daeron and saw pain and loss in his eyes that she wished wasn’t there. She wanted to do something that she knew she shouldn’t so she instead refrained.

“This life was never meant for you. You belong in a palace with more good people than are gathered here to ensure you live a life of luxury.”

Daeron scoffed and chuckled at that, then stifled even more raucous laughter with his palm, catching Jorah off-guard.

“I don’t wish to be bleak any longer. Jorah, although these weren’t meant for me, I would like to thank you wholeheartedly for bringing these books of the west. They are … extraordinary.”

 Not speaking, Jorah nodded her acknowledgement.

“Of the seven kingdoms, I have to say, I’m most fascinated with the north. You are from the north, aren’t you?”  


“Yes, though I haven’t been there in quite some time.”

“Would you tell me of it? Especially, your home. What was it again?”

“Bear Island. Yes, the north is … not like anywhere in Essos. Large tracts of land with sparse towns that would be considered outposts anywhere else. No markets like here. You can easily die between civilizations due to the wilderness or just getting lost. Wet, cold, cruel. There are some things about the north I don’t miss.”

“What _do_ you miss?”

She thought on this for a moment. “Surviving in a land like that brings out something in you, I think. Joy, wonder, love. All of that is exemplified in the north; it’s something special. Family is much closer; bonds of friendship are much stronger. It’s a simpler life and there’s little deception to who your friends or foes are. It’s hard to lie when your teeth are chattering, I think. All of that and it’s simply my home, even now. Yet … I can never go back.”  


“Why not?”

She sighed. She didn’t wish to lie to her king. “I disgraced my family name. I sold slaves on northern lands. The warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark, wishes to see me beheaded. Instead of facing his justice, I ran.”

She expected him to show outrage or disappointment in her. She expected him to shame her but instead he downcast his eyes and nodded in seeming acceptance. He took a bite of his meat.

“Isn’t slavery an affront against your old gods? Do you … still keep to the old gods?”

“Yes”, she swallowed. “And I pray for atonement every day.”

He nodded. “Then we both have something to atone.”

The two sat in silence for a while in deep thought away from each other until Daeron again broke the silence.

“I would like your help, Jorah Mormont.”

“Anything, your grace.”

“I would like to learn how to fight.”

 

 

** Jeyne **

****

****

She tried to brush her long, mangy hair at her nightstand though she didn’t have a large looking glass to check her ongoing progress. No, she would use her small glass to check herself after setting aside the brush. It took up a lot of time and was highly inconvenient. She looked at her hair then and flung the mirror on the bed in frustration. Whereas Sansa and even the other non-noble young ladies had long, fine hair they could easily comb or at least manage with a brush; Jeyne had long, wild hair with bunched curls that no comb could hope to survive. Not that she had a high-quality brush. Hard, clumped brushes better suited for a horse than a human; it was probably so. Theon often told her, her hair was wild like the direwolves she found and just as welcome in Winterfell. She bounced the brush off of the floor, hoping that it would break and was disappointed that it didn’t.

 _I should just chop it all off_ , she thought, referring to her hair. _Who would care anyway?_

She did what she usually did and just put a tie in it, something Sansa and her friends often said was something smallfolk did. Which didn’t matter anyway because she was a bastard; also, not everybody’s hair responded divinely by becoming wet.

She went to her window and looked outside out to the courtyard. Some drunk lordlings from the Great Hall were singing in the streets; some bawdy song of a northern lass who gave herself to the lord of Winterfell and his bannermen while her sailor husband was at sea. Another man was puking in the yard while they laughed at him. Even from where she sat, she could hear the music and occasional raucous laughter from the hall. The king’s party had arrived earlier that day; of course, being a bastard, she wasn’t to disturb them with her presence. She had expected Lady Stark to wish her away but what gave her pause was _Lord_ Stark’s eagerness to keep her out of sight. Though she was slightly hurt at first, she grew to accept it throughout the day and knew that he was simply acquiescing to his wife. Pleasing a woman like that must be a task that deserves a royal title by itself. So, it was as it was; everybody was in the hall and she was alone. She shifted her gaze upwards from the drunkards to the target dummies where she had seen Robb had taken to train Bran just a few weeks prior. She looked to Ghost, who laid as silent and moody as her, in the corner.

“Come, Ghost; I have some frustration to loose.”

 

In relative quick succession, she fired four arrows with all hitting near the centerpoint of her targeting dummy within only seconds between each shot. She exhaled forcefully to regain her breathing rhythm as she reached down to her quiver to gather her next volley. She was stopped by a shrill whistle behind her; she stopped and turned.

A man approached her in the courtyard, wearing dark clothing including doublet and leather pants. He clapped to show his appreciation.

“Impressive, girl. If you were a boy, we’d gladly take you on the Wall.”

As he approached, he stepped within the nearby torch’s light and she realized it was Benjen Stark, her lord father’s younger brother.

“Uncle!” she shouted, dropping everything before running over and almost leaping into his waiting arms; she nearly knocked him right off of his feet.

“Oh, whoa!” he called out laughing as she squeezed and held on for dear life. “My, my, you’ve grown! Hold on, let me get a look at you!”

He wrenched her arms from around his neck and held her at arm’s length to look her over. “Gods, you’ve grown tall … and _pretty_ , too.”

She shook her head with a smile and blush as she softly pushed his arms away. “Don’t mock me, uncle.”

His eyes fell beyond her. “And who is this?” he asked with real curiosity.

She moved away and turned to follow his gaze as Ghost padded over cautiously to the pair. She had grown so much in the two weeks since being discovered in the wolfswood. She was around the size of a common fully-grown Winterfell dog breed. Still, she should still be considered a wolf pup as she was still playful and eager to test her hunting tools including teeth and instincts on everything that crossed her path.

“This is Ghost, a direwolf we found in the wolfswood.”

“A dire … wolf? South of the Wall?”

He looked down at the cub thoughtfully.

“Is it really so strange?” she asked.

“It just doesn’t happen, Jeyne” he said, with a sigh. “That and there may be a breach in the wall if a direwolf got past us.”

“Six.”

“Come again?”

“Well, seven. There was a dead mother in the woods with six cubs. The five Stark children and I each have one.”

Benjen stopped in his tracks and ran his gloved hands through his hair. “Gods … there’s more of them? My nieces and nephews …?”

She watched as he ran his hands down his face and exhale a long sigh.

“Uncle …?” she called with an uneasy smile and concern.

“I must speak to your father at once.”

“He is in the Great Hall with the king and his royal family.”

“Ah”, he nodded. “I will kill him. I will save him from the lion’s den and then I will kill him.”

She tried and failed stifling a chuckle.

“Niece. Ghost.” He nodded at the two of them in turn and began to take his leave when Jeyne quickly grabbed at his sleeve and pulled him back.

“Wait, uncle! Will … will you take me to the Wall this time?”

“Jeyne …” he groaned.

“Just once! I’ll stay by your side the entire time! You always tell me that if I was a boy, I’d make a good sword on the Wall!”

“But you’re not a boy. The Wall’s no place for a girl.”

He saw her drop her eyes, knowing that hearing that displeased her. She must be denied many things, being a bastard; even a highborn one.

He reached out and cupped the back of her head. She looked up at him, hopeful. He pulled her towards his chest and kissed the top of her head. She closed her eyes and squeezed his arm.

“In due time, I’ll take you to the Wall. It’s turmoil right now, darling. The Wall isn’t going anywhere. Understand?”

She sighed and nodded. “Mmhmm. Thank you.”

He slowly pulled away and turned to leave. “We’ll speak later.”

She watched him make his way to the hall.

“Your uncle. A man of the Night’s Watch?”

She turned to the stables to track where the voice was coming from, realizing there was a child that was in a stall for some reason. Yet, with a man’s voice.

“Who are you and whatever are you doing over there, boy?” she asked as the boy approached. As he made his way under the nearby torches’ light, she saw that he had a man’s face and rough hands; all that and he swigged from a leather flask of sweet liquor she could smell from where she stood as it passed to his lips. No, not a child but a dwarf, a being she had scarcely ever seen.

“Ah, taking a stroll about and admiring your township. And I’m no _boy_. You have some fine manure, by the by. Makes for beautiful grass, I’m sure. Would you like some, girl? The rum, not the manure.” he offered her the flask to which she shook her head hesitantly. He shrugged his small shoulders and took another swig.

“You’re the queen’s brother, aren’t you?”

He capped his flask and gave an exaggerated mock curtsy. He crossed his stubby, left leg in front of the other, bent his upper body as low as he could and spread his arms wide. “Well and present, my lady!” he bellowed in mocking tone with a snort before returning to original position. “My greatest honor, it seems. Tyrion Lannister, if it’d please you. And you are Ned Stark’s bastard, are you not?”

She noticeably froze and turned neutral in her gaze upon him. Her heart immediately sunk and breath caught in her lungs at the thought of being called a bastard by a stranger. She internally cursed herself for having such a reaction. Ghost stood in tense stance beside her, snarling silently.

“Bastard, please calm the beast.”

Jeyne did nothing and Ghost bared her fangs even farther.

“Somehow”, Tyrion noted, not taking his eyes from Ghost, “it’s even more unsettling when it’s silent.”

“You should leave now”, Jeyne warned.

“Perhaps, your right” he said, taking an uneven swig from his flask. “I do have to entertain my family and _yours._ But before I go, tell me. Why does ‘bastard’ offend you so much?”

She huffed. “It doesn’t. I just don’t _know_ you.”

“In absence of name, I can only fall back on what you are to call you.”

She paused. “My name is Jeyne Snow.”

“ _Ah_ , Jeyne the bastard.”

 _Gods_ , she thought. _He still calls me bastard_.

He began to walk off towards the Great Hall before stopping to look back at her. “Allow me to give you some advice, Jeyne the bastard. Don’t allow anybody else to sharpen the word ‘bastard’ against you. Harden yourself against it and it should never be used against you again. You seem deadly with a bow; are you saying a simple word can disarm and kill you?”

He then began to walk off, only she was left perturbed and frustrated. “What would you know of it?” she called out after him.

He stopped to address her one last time. “All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

 

The morning following the arrival of the king’s party was a sluggish one. The gathering at the hall would be remembered for a long time due to its vast entertainment and sheer amount of wine, mead and ale consumed. Quite a lot of buggery as well; many children were conceived yesternight, both legitimate and not. Though Eddard Stark was a gracious host as always, it was the king whom had elevated the night’s events to a fever pitch with his rambunctious toasts and request for more wine, food and guests. It was King Robert who called for more smallfolk to be allowed into the Great Hall and the townsfolk would ever love him for it.

The aftermath of all of that was clear to Jeyne, whom walked through the township markets with a straw basket in hand and Ghost at her side. There weren’t as many people in the streets in general and of those that were, she noticed a few slumped over stalls and walls; each barely conscious and dealing with the previous night’s events in their own way. There were far less vendors out and she didn’t have to weave her way in and out of the crowd as usual. There were no lessons for her that day and for that, she was glad.

In some ways it was odd; though she was looked down upon by the noble and first banner families, she was afforded much respect in Winter town by the smallfolk as Lord Stark’s first daughter. She never had an entourage like the other Stark children; she didn’t have designated guards, handmaids nor a doting septa like Sansa and Arya. The bastard girl was a loner and walked the town every morning before her daily lessons in blissful solace; it was understood that she was to be left well alone. Even so, she was gracious and well-liked by most. She liked to learn the names of as many people as she could and listen to their troubles; some had complaints they wouldn’t dare bring forth to the Starks or any of the houses that served directly under them, yet they trusted the girl enough to release their frustration.

She wore her favorite deep midnight blue dress that was almost black as well as a burgundy short cloak that ran mid-back that covered her neck and shoulders well. Her winter boots kept her feet warm but there was actually a pleasant chill that Jeyne quite enjoyed. The ground was hardened from the warnings of a long winter so steps sounded as if met with stone and there was no worries about mud or dirt messing about her dress.

She smiled and waved at Moyna, a barmaid who dumped a chamberpot into a trough outside to be taken to the woods and disposed. Jeyne made her way to the produce man, Olven. A kind man of fifty years or so, who made his living trading and bringing produce from Bear Island and other lush farmlands in the north. The north was generally harsh country that wasn’t amiable to fruit and vegetable growth so any man with the means to harvest and supply it in bulk could live comfortably.

He stood with bushels of sprouts, carrots, beets and spinach on one side; apples, pears, oranges and wildberries on the other.

“Morning, Olven” Jeyne greeted with a small wave and an easy smile.

“Morning, my lady” Olven gave a small head nod.

“Please, Olven”. Jeyne gave an uneasy look around her. “I’ve told you. Just Jeyne. I’m no lady.”

“You’re Lord Stark’s child, just like the others. What can I do for you this fine morning?”

Jeyne let it pass, wishing not to dwell on it. “The apples look delicious this morning, Olven. May I?”

She gestured to the basket of deep red apples. He nodded with a grin.

She reached over and took a juicy one from the top. She brought towards her nose and inhaled its sweet aroma that teased her senses.

“The trick is the timing.” He said with his arms crossed. “They were plucked just before ripening and hastened to these very streets. That apple is at its utmost sweetness.”

Her grey eyes looked it over and she couldn’t resist. She bit into the mound just beneath the stem and found that Olven told no lies. Though the skin felt hard and there was no give prior, she found the interior soft and exquisitely juicy. The juice filled her mouth as she chewed to an extent that she wiped away a bit that escaped her lips. It was the best apple she ever tasted.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“My apologies, my lady”, he whispered with a hushing finger over his lips, “ _but it’s a trade secret_.”

“The old gods themselves are in that tree”, she remarked, gazing at the apple for a moment. She looked back at Olven and shook her head. “My apologies, Olven. I forget myself.”

She reached into her coinpurse and fetched three copper stars. “For this one and three more.”

He reached out and accepted the payment as she put three apples in her basket. “My lady, this is too much.”

“Think nothing of it.” She took another bite of her apple and looked about the street before looking back to him. “The street is mostly empty this morning.”

“Aye” he agreed. “The king caused quite a stir when he invited the little people into the hall last night. They’ll love him for it but I’m sure they’re cursing _themselves_ right about now.”

She smiled and shared a chuckle with him. She heard a man retching in the distance as if the old gods wished to illustrate this point.

His eyes fell down beside her. “You have a wolf now?”

“Her name is Ghost. She was found in the wolfswood.” She refrained from telling him she was a direwolf for worry of his response.

“Well, ‘ello, Ghost.”

Ghost just looked up at him, blinking her red eyes at him, before poking her long tongue out beyond her fangs in a long yawn and looking away in disinterest.

“An albino?” he questioned.

“Yes. She’s more fortunate than I am in this life it seems.” She jested lightly at herself with a small smile.

“Well, I’m glad. You need a companion and you’re alone far too much for my liking. She seems a fine protector.”

“May the old gods bless you, Olven” she said with a nod as she moved to depart.

“You as well, my lady.”

 

She continued down the street when she happened upon Lisbeth’s station. She sold flowers and one of the bundles she had out had Jeyne’s favorite: blue winter roses.

“Good Morning, Jeyne.” Lisbeth smiled as Jeyne approached.

“Good morning, Lisbeth.” Jeyne answered and gestured to the winter roses. “May I?”

Lisbeth nodded.

Jeyne hunched down and took a long whiff of the roses. It’s natural, wild scent reminded her of her youth in running through the woods and diving into bundles of fallen leaves. She would pretend to be a wolf cub and when her father would dig her out, she would cling onto him and bury her face into his beard. She laughed when he would remark how she dirtied his furs. Those were the years she was closest to him. They have barely touched since.

“Excuse me, miss?” A male voice seemed to be calling out to her.

She stood up and looked beside her to see a tall, handsome man along with five men behind him in golden, royal soldier armor. The man himself had medium-length blonde hair, cat-like green eyes and a face that could’ve been chiseled by a great sculptor. He wore a white armor and cloak with the sigil of the Kingsguard. It was Ser Jaime Lannister. She had heard many tales of his swordmanship and the derogatory tale behind his unfortunate nickname, ‘Kingslayer’. Her heart caught in her chest at the sight of him. He was absolutely stunning. She paused for quite a while, unable to say anything.

“Do you know who I am?”

She swallowed and gave a feeble bow. “Y-yes, ser. You are … Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard. I’ve seen paintings of you.”

Her eyes went wide and she cursed herself internally for saying such a thing. Truthfully, the paintings didn’t do him justice but she was glad she didn’t say _that_. He had a smirk on his face that alone made her blush red.

“Very well” he said. “I am sorry to bother you on this fine morning but I’m looking for my miniature brother, Tyrion. Grubby hands, stubby little legs; you can’t miss him. Have you seen him about?”

She gave pause. “I-I saw him last night, ser. He went to the Great Hall.”

“But not this morning?”

“Not this morning. No, ser.”

He nodded and took a couple of steps towards her and narrowed his eyes. She took an involuntary step back and her eyes danced about uneasily as she swallowed again.

“Have we met before?” He had a bemused look on his face. “You look familiar …”

“No, ser. We’ve never met.” _I would surely remember_.

“You’re quite pretty and … remarkably clean.” He studied her up and down for a moment. “What is your name?”

“Jeyne, ser.” She gathered herself up and finally looked at him.

“Jeyne. Just … Jeyne?”

“Jeyne … Snow.”

“ _Ahhh_ ” he leaned back and sighed. “Snow. That’s a bastard’s name up north, isn’t it?”

She slowly nodded her head. “Yes … ser.”

“Whose bastard are you if I may ask, Jeyne?”

“Lord Eddard Stark is my father, ser.”

“Oh!” Jaime exclaimed. “You’re _the_ bastard! The infamous one. I was wondering if I would come across the likes of you. Tell me, Jeyne, where has Lord Stark been hiding you?”

“Forgive me, ser, but I don’t _hide_.”

“Hiding in plain sight, then. I see. Oh! I see you have a winter dog to boot.”

Jaime leaned down to pet Ghost when she bared her fangs to him and snapped at his armored hand. He flinched and instinctively went for his sword as well as the soldiers behind him. Jeyne flinched and moved to shield Ghost. Jaime paused and removed his hand from his hilt. He looked over his shoulder to the royal soldiers.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” He chuckled and looked back at Jeyne.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, Miss Snow. I’ll leave you to it. Just one more thing.”

He moved over to her and bent to her right ear. “A pretty thing like you really shouldn’t be out on the streets alone. You never know what a man might do, especially when a lord’s daughter is about. I doubt a pup could count for a guard.”

With that, he moved past her. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss Snow.” He left her, with the royal soldiers trailing him. She looked after them for a few moments before taking a long sigh and returning to her business.

 

 

She ended up buying a dozen of the winter roses and put them in her basket with her apples. After her time at the flower shop, she took a walk to the barber. She gave some serious thought to getting her hair chopped off but ultimately didn’t do it after seeing what a mess the barbers made of other girls’ hair. Afterwards, she went to the kennels so Ghost could meet and play with some of the dogs. She then went to the butcher and bought some raw beef and pork for Ghost to feast on later. Finally, she returned to the courtyard. She intended to return to her chamber with her purchase to rest for a while before heading back out with Ghost to travel the nearby woods. As she entered the courtyard, she happened upon Rickon and a small entourage including Theon.

“Ah, sweet Rickon!” Rickon was the youngest of the Stark siblings. A young boy of five with curly brown hair and blue eyes; Jeyne found him absolutely adorable. The two of them didn’t see each other very often. She set her basket to the ground and kneeled as Rickon ran to her; he leapt into a hug with her.

“Ooomph!” groaned Jeyne from the added weight. “You’re getting so big now!”

“Jeyne! I’ve missed you, big sister!”

“I’ve missed you too.”

“ _Jeyne_.” Theon called out Jeyne’s name as he approached the two, rather aggressively.

“ _Theon_.” Jeyne returned it kind, peering up at him from over Rickon’s shoulder.

She then gently put Rickon at arm’s length and looked over to her left; she observed her white Ghost playfully growling and tumbling over Rickon’s own black-furred direwolf.

“What’s your wolf’s name?”

“Shaggydog!”

She gave him a curious look. “Shaggy … dog?”

His face looked somewhat pained at her questioning so she re-collected herself. “Sh-Shaggydog! A fine name! It suits you both. And where you going out on this wonderful day?”

“To play!” Rickon declared.

“Lady Stark told me to take him out to the woods.” Theon said. “He has far too much energy today.”

“Well, I have something for that” Jeyne declared, reaching into her basket and pulling one of her sweet apples. “Want an apple?”

“I think that’s the opposite of what we want” Theon remarked.

Jeyne ignored him and told Rickon, “I tried one myself and it is the best fruit I’ve ever tasted.”

Rickon took it in both hands. “Thank you, Jeyne!”

Jeyne was about to answer when she heard Sansa’s voice call out to her.

“What are you doing with my brother, Snow?”

Jeyne looked over to see Sansa and her covey of ladies approaching. Her best friend and the head steward’s daughter, Jeyne Poole, was always at her side. There were other young daughters of Stark servants and lower House daughters and also a blonde girl, younger than the others and dressed the finest of the group as well.

Jeyne stood to face Sansa. “I was in the market earlier where I bought some apples and I offered one to Rickon.”

“Oh, you have apples?” Sansa asked. “I love apples. May I have one, please?” She extended her left palm out expectantly to receive it.

“Why, of course.” Jeyne reached into her basket for another one and gladly handed it over to Sansa. Sansa barely held it before letting it fall to the ground. Jeyne Poole and some of the others behind her stifled laughter as Jeyne watched it fall and roll around. A chunk of the skin broke off and the core actually got dirty.

“So sorry”, Sansa said in false modesty.

Jeyne swallowed. “It’s quite alright.”

Sansa held her hand out again. "May I have another?" More chuckles.

Jeyne stood stiff, conflicted.

Sansa gave a small smile and dropped her hand as well as the matter entirely. She stepped aside and gestured to the blonde girl. “Snow, this is Princess Myrcella Baratheon and you haven’t shown proper courtesy.”

Jeyne immediately curtsied and bowed her head toward Princess Myrcella. “My apologies. Pleased to meet you, your Highness.”

“Pleased to meet you as well”, Myrcella said, being polite.

“Your Highness, this is Jeyne Snow” Sansa said to Myrcella though she was looking at Jeyne the entire time. “She may look like smallfolk but don’t let appearances fool you. She is my father’s living mistake and a blight on the name _Stark_. Her mother was a harlot who seduced my father and we’re all sure she’ll never rise above that. Our dear bastard.”

Jeyne simply looked at Sansa in the face, her face pained. She remembered when they were very young, the two were close. In fact, Sansa would try to follow Jeyne everywhere but it seemed Sansa either had very little memories of that or she willfully ignored them.

Myrcella looked between the two of them, shifting uncomfortably.

“As far as I’m concerned” Sansa went on, “the only good Jeyne is the one standing beside me.”

Jeyne Poole looked over from Sansa to Jeyne Snow and beamed.

Jeyne Snow’s eyes shifted over all of them and frowned. She reached down to pick up her basket. She stopped to address the princess and bowed her head to her. “Your Highness.” She then began to take her leave and walk past the collected groups.

Sansa called out, “Wait!” and stopped Jeyne in her tracks. “I saw what you did yesterday in our needle session. Don’t you ever desecrate my House sigil with your bastard blood ever again, Snow!”

Jeyne said nothing and simply continued walking on towards the keep and ultimately her chamber that mercifully separated from the rest of the Starks. Ghost bounded after her and she reached up to wipe away some damned tears that began to form in her eyes.

Maester Luwin with some of his servants rushed out from the keep past her and she stopped to see what was so urgent.

“Sansa! Rickon!” he shouted as he stopped in front of them. “Your dear brother, Bran! He has fallen from the high tower! He is in dire condition!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be wrong but to me Jorah seems to me to be a gender-neutral name and if not, well she's from Bear Island of the north, the land of badass women. She can have a masculine name I think. I made Ghost a female as well. Who knows who else might show up as a different gender? ***winks*.**


	3. Exile/Prisoners

** Jeyne **

 

For the first time since receiving her dear cub, she committed Ghost to her room by herself. It pained her to do it but there was no chance that she would be permitted to see Bran with the evergrowing direwolf at her side. She paced outside Bran’s solar afterwards, praying internally with the old gods for the strength to enter; it was not for the strength to see Bran. Bran was dear to her and she would gladly be by his side without hesitation as she would any Stark. She prayed for the strength to face Lady Stark, whom she had heard hadn’t left the room since Bran had been rendered inside.

After a time, Jeyne pushed open the heavy, wooden door. Bran lay motionless in the large bed, covered in blankets and furs and gave faint but steady breaths. As expected, Lady Catelyn Stark was seated in a wooden chair at his side; she had several odd, crafted idols of the Seven beside her. Jeyne focused on the shocked face Lady Stark carried at the sight of her for just a moment and strode right to Bran’s side opposite from her. Lady Stark’s bewildered eyes followed her the entire way. As Jeyne knelt down over the bed, tears streamed down her cheeks and she took Bran’s left hand in both of her own. She placed her forehead over his hand and sighed.

“Bran … “ she whispered to him. “Dear … Bran. It’s me … it’s Jeyne. I don’t know when … you’ll wake but I want you to know … I will be here when you do.”

“No … you won’t”, Lady Stark said to her.

Jeyne raised her head and looked up at Lady Stark, whom had half-dried tears of her own.

“It’s a good act, I must admit”, she went on. “But I see right through you, _girl_.”

Jeyne sniffled and opened her mouth to speak. “My Lady –“

“Shut up!”

Jeyne went silent.

Lady Stark stood up, placing her hands on the bed to steady herself and look down on Jeyne. “I want you … _out_ of this room. Do you hear me? I must’ve done something to anger the Seven for if they were good and gracious to me, it would be _you_ broken and bed-ridden and not my … sweet Bran.”

Jeyne inhaled and squeezed her eyes shut, spilling more tears in response to Lady Stark’s callousness.

Lady Stark leaned farther towards Jeyne. “I said ‘ _Get out’_!”

“Cat!” yelled Lord Stark from the doorway, whom had appeared there at some point. Catelyn turned to him at his voice. Jeyne crept forward and kissed Bran on the forehead.

“We’ll see each other again, Bran” she whispered.

Lady Stark turned back and saw this.

“Noooo!” she screamed. “Don’t touch him!”

She lunged forward and pushed at Jeyne’s face multiple times to get her away from Bran.

“Catelyn!” Lord Stark yelled as he approached. “Enough! Stop this!”

When Jeyne got to her feet, Catelyn reared back and smacked her across the face, forcing her to stagger against the opposite wall. Lord Stark finally grabbed ahold of Catelyn to keep her from more violence. Jeyne held her burning cheek for a moment before rushing from the room.

She ran down the hall until she found a niche in the wall to her left where she could crouch a sufficient distance from that room. She lowered to the floor and held her head in her hands; she burst into tears and began sobbing uncontrollably. She had never thought her day would go like this and everything had just gotten away from her.

Still, she could hear Lady Stark’s cries from down the hall.

“I want that daughter of a whore gone! I will abide her presence no longer!”  
  
“Catelyn! Please, see reason!”

“Reason? I have reason to believe you love her more than our children! _My_ children!”

“Catelyn, stop this!”

“You are set to leave to King’s Landing! When you leave, I _will_ have her gone! One way or another!”

“Cat, surely you do not mean …”

“One way or another, Ned!”

Lord Stark grabbed her by the arms angrily. “Damn it, woman! That girl is Stark! You will not harm a hair on her head!”

Catelyn collapsed in his arms, wailing loudly. He slowly released her and she slid into her chair, continuing to sob and hold herself. Ned looked at Bran for a moment before he went from the room. He strode down the hall with his cloak billowing behind him to find Jeyne but he discovered that she was no longer there.

 

Lord Eddard Stark discovered Jeyne at last in the first place he should have looked upon further reflection. Beneath the heart tree of the nearest godswood not a great distance west of the Winter town. She was knelt before it in silent prayer. He waited for several minutes, just watching her. He was proud of her reverence; a child of the old gods must pray in silent and keep it secret between them and one self.

“I have been looking for you, Jeyne”, he called out to her finally. She jumped up to her feet and faced him, startled. “You shouldn’t have run off like that.”

Jeyne collapsed to her knees in front of him. “My lord! I beg your forgiveness for disturbing Lady Stark! You may punish me as you like!”

Ned stopped. “Now, when have I ever done that?” He knelt down and grasped Jeyne by the shoulders, causing her to look up into his eyes. “Rise, child.” He slowly guided her to her feet.

“However”, he went on, “ _something_ must be done. It pains me to say it but I cannot guarantee your protection here in my absence.”

“So it is true, my lord? You are leaving to King’s Landing?”

“…Yes.”

She nodded in understanding. “I apologize. I have always been a burden to you and your Lady wife. Allow me to join the Silent Sisters and I shall never burden either of you again.”

“The Silent Sisters? But you follow the old gods, not the Seven.”

“It matters not. I can grow to love the old gods and the Seven on equal terms, I think.”

“I won’t allow it. The Silent Sisters … is not for you. My … position at King’s Landing is not a permanent one. I will place you at the Wall under protection of some trusted men and my brother. I will retrieve you upon my return. Understand?”

Jeyne thought on this for a moment. In a way, it was what she always wanted. A chance to see beyond the Wall. A chance to meet the brothers of the Night’s Watch at all.

“Is this your decision, my lord?”

“Yes.” He then pulled her to his chest for a tight hug. She hesitated for a second or two but eventually wrapped her arms around him as well. They hadn’t hugged since she was a little girl and she hadn’t expected it. “You will leave in three hours’ time. Pack what you can but be practical. You will be traveling on the road and can be attacked.”

“Yes, my lord …”

“You still won’t call me ‘father’?” he asked her. “Even now?”

  
She didn’t say anything for a while. She hated it; she still felt guilt for reminding her siblings she was another woman’s daughter. She felt like every smile and every second of joy was wrong at times. “I’m sorry, my lord”, she said to him. “I _can’t_.” More tears crept down her cheeks.

He held her tighter.

 

Jeyne was well on her way to finishing her goodbyes. Whereas a high born lady might have more proclivity for friends of equal status, Jeyne herself felt a camaraderie for all servants and smallfolk who showed a care to be friendly to her. She had a quick walk through the shops of town and said her farewells to all her favorite shopkeepers and maidens. She left them all with a single copper star; not as payment for their friendship but as remembrance of their companionship together. She was saddened whenever the ones she intended to do this for weren’t present for she didn’t have the time to wait. She reminded herself that this was temporary and she was intended to return to Winterfell.

When Jeyne was well on her way to seeing Arya in case she couldn’t later, she was met by Ser Jaime Lannister in the courtyard. Only this time, he wasn’t armored but wore a white and gold embroidered coat bearing his arms over a small shirt and white pants. He still had his Kingsguard broadsword hilted at his side. Again, her heart briefly skipped at the sight of him and she unwillingly averted her gaze. She would look foolish and disrespectful to dart away so she stopped as he approached and gave a curtsy.

“Ser.”

She had hoped he would ignore her and pass along like other nobles but was dismayed when he stopped before her. She stood straight and looked up into his eyes to see a fine grin upon his face.

“Ah, Miss Snow! I hear that you’re off to the Wall. It seems that Winterfell isn’t so kind to bastards when the patriarch isn’t present.”

“Lord Stark believes it is for the best.”

“Ah”, Ser Jaime sighed and mockingly winced. “Though you do have to question the lord’s judgement to choose the _Wall_ for his daughter’s internment. I mean, the company is not exactly … savory.”

“The Wall houses honorable men, Ser”, Jeyne protested. “They are sworn to protect the realm from …”

“Yes, snooks, grumlins and snackles. All the creatures that keep children up at night.”

“Snackles?”

He took a step towards her, causing her to shift uncomfortably. “Heed my advice, miss Snow; however … _honorable_ … those men are, they have sworn vows of celibacy … but they are not eunuchs. What do you think they would do with a pretty thing like you in their grasp?”

“I am protected, Ser.” She said after a pause.

“You will have guards?”

She slowly nodded.

He stepped back and returned to his previous bright gaze instantaneously. “Good! Then I wish you all the good fortune in the world, Miss Snow!” He took her right hand in one of his padded it with his other in companionship. “I do truly hope to see you again with your chastity and honor intact!”

With that, he moved away and continued on his way past her. She couldn’t help but bite the inside of her lip at the implications of his talk.

 

Jeyne hesitated before finally banging at her door. The door cracked open and her younger sister peered out into the hallway, apparently wary of visitors.

“Come in!” Arya yelped. “Quickly!”

Once inside, Jeyne noticed Arya was nervous. She looked and saw her dresses and undergarments crudely packed away in one of her bags. The septa wouldn’t be pleased to see that. Jeyne knew that Arya as well as Sansa were accompanying their lord father and a host of Winterfell companions to King’s Landing. Arya’s direwolf, Nymeria, was seated and well-behaved in the center of the room; she curiously watched the two of them.

“I hear that you are leaving Winterfell as well?” Arya prodded.

“Yes, Lord Stark-“

“You mean _father_?”

Jeyne sighed and continued. “ _Lord Stark_ has seen fit to send me to the Wall for my safety.”

“Safety? But you would be safe in Winterfell.”

Jeyne didn’t wish to tell her that her mother wished it more than her father and would likely turn threatening if she had to abide Jeyne’s presence any longer. She didn’t wish to say anything to turn her against her mother for she often felt pained at never knowing her own mother.

“Your lord father commands it.”

“But-“

“Let’s not talk about it. Give me a hug, little wolf; we may not be able to say our goodbyes later.” Jeyne extended her arms and approached Arya. The young Stark ducked under Jeyne’s arms and moved past her, leaving her dejected. “Ah.”

“I have something to show you before.” She moved to her bags and grabbed something carefully from beneath her clothes. She slowly removed the cloth from her apparent treasure and turned to present it to Jeyne. Jeyne gasped when she saw what it was. It was a short sword, thin and with its width akin to an ice pick rather than a sword. It was the length of Arya’s arm from elbow to wrist.

“Arya! What are you doing with that?”

“ _Quiet! Do you want someone to hear?”_

“Sorry. But why do you have that?”

“It was a present from Robb.”

“Gods, Robb.”

“Have a look.”

Arya attempted to hand it over but Jeyne flinched away and just as she did, the door began to open. Arya quickly slid the blade upwards behind her back and held its hilt with both hands clasped behind her. Septa Mordane stepped through the doorway.

“Gods, girl!” the septa called out. “What is all that racket? And you! Shouldn’t you pack as well?”

“I have much less to pack, septa” Jeyne answered. “I am on horseback.”

“I see.” The septa said with a nod and began to move towards them and the bed. “Well, let’s have a look then.”

As she approached, both Arya and Jeyne positioned their bodies away and faced her so that she couldn’t see behind Arya’s back.

“Gods, this is abhorrent!” she commented at Arya’s folded clothes. “All that instruction gone to waste! Sansa is a proper lady but _you_?!”

Jeyne moved closer to Arya’s back.

Mordane looked back at Arya. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“…Sorry?” Arya offered with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Let me see your hands!”

Arya hesitated.

“Out with them! Your hands!”

Slowly, Arya brought out her hands and presented the back of her palms to the septa. It was Jeyne who held the sword; she had swiftly and carefully taken the sword from behind Arya’s back and placed it behind her own. The septa didn’t pay any attention to her anyway.

“Well, I _should_ strike you” Mordane murmured, “but we are running short on time …”

She turned to Jeyne. “You! You’ll make sure she puts away her things properly.”

“Yes, septa.” Jeyne answered.

“I’ll return shortly. It will be done by then.” Well, it was decided and the septa was off.

When she was gone, Arya sighed with relief. “I thought she would never leave. That was our best trick yet.”

Jeyne took the sword from behind her back and looked at it in her arms.

Arya went on. “I named it Needle.”

Jeyne looked at her. “Arya, Robb was wrong. You shouldn’t have this.”

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t understand. You’re a proper lady like Sansa.”

Arya reached out and took it from Jeyne’s grasp, nearly pricking her so she flinched away. “Careful.”

Arya went on. “You’re not my mother, you know. I already have one of those and I barely tolerate her.”

The two look at each other for a moment and Jeyne slumped, then relented.

“I’m sorry” Jeyne apologized. “This is supposed to be our goodbye and I’m ruining it.”

“Yes” Arya said. “Yes, you are.”

Jeyne outstretched her arms. “Will you forgive me, little wolf?”

Arya smiled and moved towards Jeyne with Needle in hand. Jeyne flinched backwards.

“Please …”

“Oh, sorry.”

She turned and placed it in her case with her clothes. When she turned back around, she leapt upwards into Jeyne’s arms. Jeyne staggered and struggled to catch her, ultimately failing as she stumbled backwards and the two fell to the floor. Jeyne yelled out.

“ _Umpfh_! You’re getting too big, girl!”

“Shut up!”

The girls shared a long laugh as Arya rolled on her back next to Jeyne and even more so when Nymeria padded over and licked both of their faces.

“Ah!” Arya whined as Jeyne laughed, blocking her face. “Nymeria!”

 

Jeyne fastened her packed saddlebag to her black’s harness; he was a northern breed with a black coat and a rather long mane. Robb approached her wearing his wolf furs and a sword on his belt.

“So you’re off then, Jeyne?”

She gave him a look. “You gave Arya a sword?”

“Better that I give her one she can handle rather than she steal a broadsword and open up an innocent … or herself.”

“That was rather bleak, Robb.”

“Painted a picture though, didn’t I?”

Jeyne sighed and opened her arms to him. “Fine. Just give me a hug then, fool.”

The hug that the two shared was the warmest and the closest they had ever shared to date. As they parted, they noticed young Jeyne Poole in a pale blue dress of her own leading a horse past them. Her eyes briefly caught the gaze of their own though she quickly averted her stare and went on her own way.

“Jeyne Poole?” Jeyne said aloud.

“She’s likely a traveling companion for Sansa. I’m sure father obliged her to keep her happy.”

“You’ll be lord of Winterfell in Lord Stark’s absence, won’t you?” She asked, turning back to face him.

“Yes”, he said with a sigh after a short pause.

“Lord Robb Stark.” She said slowly, playing with it on the tongue. “It seems … _right_. How do you feel about it?”

He rolled his shoulders. “It is a little _daunting_ but father’s men are here to make sure I don’t make a complete mess of everything.”

She gave a slight scoff. “You? I don’t think you’ve ever made a mess in your life. But, I’m glad.”

He reached out and pulled her in for another embrace. “Farewell, sister. We’ll see each other again, hopefully soon.”

Jeyne closed her eyes as her cheek touched his. “I know it. Write to me. And tell me the moment Bran wakes.”

They parted slightly and Robb gave her a solemn look.

Jeyne was taken aback at his apparent lack of faith. “He _will_ wake, Robb.”

Still shaken but more assured at the confidence of her words, he nodded. “Of course. Of course, he will. And I will write to you of a great more things than that.”

“Good.”

 

Later that day, two traveling parties met apart from Winterfell and Winter town on the Kingsroad to make their separate and opposite journeys. Sansa, Arya and the royal family were in horse drawn carriages for King’s Landing. Jeyne and Benjen began to trot their horses towards the group for the Wall when the new Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, approached on horseback.

Benjen nodded at his brother before looking to Jeyne. “Just come over when you’re ready.” Jeyne gave him a steady nod before she turned her horse to meet Lord Stark. Ned maneuvered his horse in the opposite direction and parallel to Jeyne’s so that the two were close.

“Don’t be foolhardy, Jeyne. I have assigned four good men to watch over you. Stay by their side at all times. You are not a black brother. You will stay safe.”

She nodded demurely. “Yes, my lord.”

“I have also assigned you a steward. The other Jeyne.”

“The other J-“

Jeyne looked around as Jeyne Poole strode past them upon a smaller mare, giving Jeyne perhaps the coldest glare she had ever received and that was saying a lot. Jeyne Poole continued on towards the Wall party.

Jeyne looked back to Lord Stark. “My Lord, do you really think I’m worthy of a steward?”  
  
He gave an unsatisfied look. “Jeyne, you have my blood in your veins. You are worthy of a lot more than that. I will not hear any more talk like that from you. Your time at the Wall is temporary; I have business to handle in King’s Landing and when I am finished with that, I will come back for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“When I return, things will be better.  You will no longer be treated as lesser than anybody. You belong at my table and I will see to it that it happens.”

Jeyne was left speechless. She had never heard him talk like that. It made her swell with pride and graciousness. Still, she had her doubts. Lady Stark would never allow it. But she said nothing of it. Instead …

“My lord, I am sorry but I have to know … my mother … is she still alive? Does she know where I am? What … I’ve become?”

Lord Stark smiled and reached behind over and stroked the back of her head. He pulled her in close and kissed the crown of her head. “When I return, I’ll tell you all about your mother. I promise.”

Lord Stark slowly drifted back and pulled his horse around to start towards the King’s party. She watched as he put some distance between them but then she couldn’t take it. Something in Jeyne compelled her to call out to him. Something stronger than her own will.

“Father!” she shouted, causing him to turn his head and then his horse back around as he was surprised to hear that from her. When he turned towards her, she finished. “Father, I love you!”

“I love you too, Jeyne! I love you with all my heart!”

Her breath caught in her throat at the emotion his words drew out of her. The two faced each other from a distance for a short while, keeping their horses at bay with some effort. They both internally fought urges to go to each other for they each knew that if they did, they wouldn’t want to part. Finally, Ned gestured that he was turning and Jeyne gave a sad but quick nod. Almost simultaneously, the two turned and rode away to their respective parties. Jeyne wiped the tears from her eyes as she knew she shouldn’t show such weakness in front of the new brothers of the Night’s Watch.

 

The party set camp that night in the wolfswood. It took some time for Jeyne to realize that Tyrion Lannister was with the party for some reason. Jeyne sat a campfire with her guardsmen: Ossard, Chrissen Myrth, Tomas Chaver, and Venyon Tice of her father’s houseguard; as well as Jeyne Poole. The men put their hands towards the flame to warm themselves. Jeyne Poole huddled into her furs to try to stay warm. Jeyne moved close to her to try make it warmer for her and her own self. Poole noticeably moved away.

“It’d be better to stay close.” Jeyne made the kind gesture to her companion of her namesake.

“I’d rather not, Snow.”

Ossard, a scraggy and heavily bearded, dark-haired man with a scar going over his right pale eye, chuckled. “Jeyne and Jeyne. I wonder how many times I can get you both to look when I call that name.”

The two of them showed equal looks at disgust and gave a quick glance at each other before Jeyne Snow stood up from the site.

“Where are you going, girl?” a cleaner-cut Tomas demanded to know.  

“It’s … personal business.”

“Nuh uh. I’m coming with you.” He moved to stand but she put up a hand to stop him.

“No! I won’t be long!”

“I’m sorry, miss, but Lord Stark made it our duty to protect you at all times.” Said burly Venyon.

“I won’t be alone. Ghost will protect me.”

“That beast?” Ossard scoffed. “I haven’t seen it for an hour.”

“She’s hunting; if I meet trouble, she’ll find me. Trust me. I won’t be far.”

She grabbed a small branch and dipped it in a small transportable case of oil they kept and put it to the flame to make a torch. She then moved away from the camp.

Ossard turned to Tomas. “You’re getting soft.”

“Oh, suck my fart!” Tomas yelled, causing the others to laugh and Jeyne Poole to sink further into her furs uncomfortably.

 

Jeyne dropped her skirt again and moved away from the tree after having just relieved herself when she noticed Ghost padding towards her in the snow. Jeyne moved her torch in front of her to illuminate Ghost’s visage and path before herself. She could see that she had a large item in her maw. She expected a rabbit or some other small animal but it seemed the direwolf was already hunting larger game.

“What do you have, girl? What is that?”

Jeyne knelt down as Ghost dropped it in front of her. She realized it was a blackened, frostbitten human arm that was severed at mid-bicep. She let out a shrill scream.

 

“Really, Jeyne” Tyrion said as he paced between the groups’ discussion but loud enough for Jeyne to hear, “you act as if you haven’t seen a severed human arm before.”

Jeyne made no comment but just shook her head as her eyes returned to the fire in front of her. Ghost was laid in the snow beside her and lowered her head in resignation. Jeyne wished she could ask her where she had got the arm but it was obviously impossible.

“I want to go home”, groaned Jeyne Poole beside her. She made no comment on that either.

 

Benjen came over and briefed them on the situation. “The parties have been searching for the past hour and there’s no trace of where the limb came from.”

“Well, that’s reassuring” quipped Tyrion.

“I’m one of the best trackers in all the realm and _I_ found nothing.”

“Hmm, modest” muttered Tyrion.

“ _Shut up_!” Jeyne blurted out. Tyrion, Jeyne Poole, Benjen, Ossard, Venyon, Tomas and Chrissen all stopped to give Jeyne looks of various degrees of bewilderment. She hesitated and cleared her throat. “My apologies, my lord” to Tyrion. “Please continue, uncle.”

“Y-yes, as I was saying”, Benjen went on uncomfortably before regaining his stride, “we simply believe that Ghost must’ve have dug into a burial ground. It changes nothing. The winds are not dying down and it would be unwise to camp in the open. There is a cave nearby. We shelter there for the night and continue our trek by dawnbreak. It’s much too dangerous to continue the trip tonight.”

Jeyne was in disbelief. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tomas.

“Ghost was out hunting for meat and I imagine there’s plenty of game around so why would she seek out a burial ground?”

“Are you attempting to map out the thought process of a wolf?” asked Tyrion.

“Direwolf!” Jeyne corrected. “And yes. I know her.”

“ _Know_ her? Isn’t she only a week old? She doesn’t even know what she’s doing.”

“Two weeks … and some days …old” Jeyne added.

“Makes all the difference in the world.”

“Will you two stop it”, Benjen interjected. “Jeyne. Are you making a point here?”

Jeyne thought for a moment but came up with nothing. It wasn’t anything she could put into words. It just felt like Ghost was trying to show them, or rather _her_ , something; she just had no idea what.

She sighed. “No …”

“Then let us handle this” Benjen went on. “Believe me. We know what we’re doing.”

 

 

The cave mouth was a bit wet but nonetheless drier and more hospitable than the elements outside. A windy chill had built up in the time since their excitement. A fire site was built in the center of them. Not too large but enough for some warmth. Jeyne’s guards and wolf stayed close while Jeyne Snow and Poole shared a blanket and bundled together. Eventually, Jeyne found it comfortable enough to where she could actually sleep.

At some point, she felt herself being pushed around roughly.

_Jeyne. Jeyne. JEYNE!_

The calling of her name started off hollow as if coming from a far off place after having her ears rung but it quickly became clearer. She stirred and slowly realized she was being roused from sleep.

“What is it?” she shrilly called out.

“Something’s happening!” Jeyne Poole whispered down over her.

Sure enough, they heard more struggling and groaning with a bit of disturbing gurgling to go along with it near the front of the cave. Jeyne was more than a little frightened and confused as to what it was. Jeyne Poole huddled closer to her.

 _Oh, now she wants to get close_.

The fire was out but there was a little light from the wide mouth of the cave; reflection from the moon on the heavy snow. She could make out frantic silhouettes in the distance. She felt and looked around for Ghost. The direwolf was hunched and alert; silently snarling towards the cave mouth.

Somebody grabbed Jeyne’s arm from behind. She turned sharply on him and Jeyne Poole gasped.

“Come with me. _Now._ ”

As he pulled Jeyne to her feet, she grabbed Jeyne Poole and called out for Ghost to follow. He pulled Jeyne by the hand along a narrow path that she slowly came to realize led to another forked cave mouth. She crept outwards from the cave, hugging her cloak and sleeves to her body as her hair swayed and swirled in the wind; she lowered her head to her chest and suddenly wanted to return to the cave. The winter storm was ongoing as ice swirled about and stung her face; she turned around to see Poole and Ghost creep close to her.

“Make them take us back to Winterfell!” Jeyne Poole cried out. Behind even her was bearded and mysterious Ossard; he was the man who pulled them from the cave.

“Stay here!” he said to them. “I’ll gather the others!”

Even with the shrill wind, Jeyne could hear the frantic shouting of men from the cave. She turned on Ossard. “What’s happening?!”

“Stay here!” repeated Ossard.

Jeyne watched him dart back into the cave; she then turned her attention to the other Jeyne.

“Snow …”

“Not now, Jeyne!” Snow moved closer to the mouth to get some warmth.

“We should go back!”

“We can’t go back!”

“Well, actually … _you_ can’t go back but maybe you can convince them to escort _me_ to Winterfell ---“ Poole kept talking; Snow just ceased listening as she stepped closer to the cave. Ghost suddenly leapt past her and hunched down, silently snarling at her. She stopped completely and became confused. It was the first time Ghost had shown aggression of any kind towards her.

“Ghost?” she whispered.

Ghost didn’t falter and in fact bared her fangs even farther. Her initial thoughts was that her direwolf had turned on her but slowly came to the belief that Ghost intended to keep Jeyne from the entering the cave in truth. Poole approached her from behind and peered over her shoulder at the direwolf.

“I knew the beast would go feral. You should have it killed.” Jeyne craned her neck and gave her a look.

 

Hours later, it was dawnbreak and the winds died down enough for the group to travel for the wall. Multiple horses had collapsed due to the winds, including her own, so she carried her saddlebag.

“You know, you _do_ have a steward now” Chrissen said from beside her. Snow turned her head and saw Jeyne Poole struggle with her own bag as Ossard chuckled at her.

“I wouldn’t ask her to do that.”

“What do you intend to do with your little servant girl? You’re not her friend, you know. You’re of a higher status.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, so Lord Eddard Stark isn’t your father?”

She just ignored and continued to follow the party. He didn’t let up.

“Just listen. That girl is here to serve _you_ and there are many uses for a servant.”

She didn’t give it another thought.

 

When they made it into the clearing, Jeyne saw it. A monumental cliff; a dark wall of ice and stone. It was well over a hundred feet tall and stretched farther horizontally than she could see. How far did it go? Around the world? Jeyne knew it seemed silly but the irrational part of her mind, the little girl who saw the best in everybody and each emergence as beautiful destiny, _wanted_ the Wall to extend around the entire world. She wanted to walk every inch of it and even beyond.

She stood, staring at it in wonder, not noticing that Tyrion stopped beside her.

“Quite terrifying, isn’t it?”

“No, my lord” she said, addressing him. “It’s beautiful.”

“Exactly” he said, “and that is why I’m going to piss from it.”

Not believing that she heard him correctly, she gave him a face of astonishment.

 

 

 

** Daeron **

 

 

When Daeron heard that the Dothraki meant to cross the Dothraki Sea as they cleared the Forest of Qohor, he imagined a vast body of water or _some_ water. It was actually more plains but these lands were different; tall grass that rose to his hips in large swaths. There were no roads or cities as far as he could see but he saw large routes had been cut through the grass; paths of some importance.

“Some are trade routes” Jorah told him. “Most lead to sites of ruined civilizations felled by Dothraki hordes. The one we are on leads to Vaes Dothrak, the Dothraki’s only true province.”

Daeron found it all interesting.

“There are three more days of travel. Likely two more days of settlement.”

He brought his horse to rest and let the wind flow through his silver-gold hair and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply; a deep feeling of contentment washed over him and in the back of his mind he could hear a faint whispering hum of some nostalgic song he couldn’t quite remember. It was ended abruptly when he remembered the Red Door. He then gathered himself and looked about as Dothraki passed him on the path on all sides both on horseback and on foot. He briefly noticed that Qotho stared him down as he passed. He had been doing it more and more lately; Daeron tried to keep it from his mind to no avail.

 

On the occasion when the khalasar settled camp among the ruins, Daeron wanted to help. He helped a group of young boys place tents and then stake them into the ground as well as gather wood for the firesites. When he returned from a firesite to finish staking a tent, one of the young boys chased him down from behind and stole his mallet right out of his hand. The child took off in a sprint past Daeron laughing as the prince was briefly stunned. He saw that the onlooking adults were laughing themselves so he turned back to the retreating boy and finally gave chase. The boy had stopped some distance away from Daeron and hopped up and down in the air, waiting for Daeron to catch up.

Just as Daeron made it to him, the boy darted around the far side of a firesite. Daeron positioned himself on the opposite side and crouched down; he was prepared to strafe in either direction to catch him. The boy couldn’t stop giggling as he continued trying to out-maneuver Daeron, only to be constantly cut off and return to his original position. The boy reminded him of himself when he and his sister used to live on the streets. Oftentimes, Daeron used to steal food for the two of them. He was only caught once. He developed above average speed and reflexes due to it.

He decided to finish it and leapt over the unlit firesite for him. The child leapt away from him as Daeron scampered to his feet to continue the chase. Daeron chased after him in the direction that they began; when Daeron began really closing the distance, the child flung the mallet to one of his friends. Daeron immediately turned on him and gathered him up in his arms. He raised the young boy high and yelled out in triumph. Suddenly, he was swarmed by a whole group of children; girls and boys both. He laughed loudly as he fell to the ground with them over him. His laughter died down when one of the girls began running her hands through his long, Valyrian hair. She playfully tugged and ran her fingers through it. He watched with interest as she brought a handful of his hair to her nostrils and inhaled its oiled scent.

“Daeron!” His sister’s voice. He gently moved the girl aside and sat up as the others scattered. His sister was before him, wearing a golden gown adorned with some of the jewels and medallions from her wedding. Her face showed clear displeasure and possibly even more than that.

She yelled to him again. “Daeron! Come _here_! Now!”

“What’s the matter, sister?”

“I said _now_!”

With reluctance, he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to her.

“What’s the matter?”

“What is this? You are the crown prince and you sully yourself; even more, you sully _me_ with childish games! You are not common smallfolk! You are royalty!”

“Sister, it is a small thing really …”

She smacked him hard across the face, knocking him backwards a few steps and reddening his cheek.

“I am not your _sister_. I am your _queen_. You will not lower yourself further by cavorting with these nasty, little pygmies.”

“Your grace …”

“Return to your tent! Your meal will be brought to you in an hour’s time. You will remain there for the remainder of the evening.”

“You can’t be serious …”

“I am. And you will obey, little Dae’.”

She reached over and cupped his chin with her right hand. “If the world was fair, we would be together. But it is not, so you have to trust I have your best interests in mind. Which I do.”

She placed both hands on his cheeks and peered into his eyes. “Now, return to your tent.”

 

Jorah Mormont sat on a chest in Daeron’s tent, reading a book and barely paying attention to the grunts and swings of wooden swords. Black Bear was giving Daeron a round.

“You flail far too much, your grace” Black Bear told him. “Square yourself. The only reason you should move is that you move _yourself_. You … do move _too_ much, however.”

Daeron lunged toward him with an outstretched thrust; Black Bear simply stepped aside and used one arm to guide Daeron into a forward somersault onto his back.

Jorah looked from her book and sighed with chagrin. “Steady. Do you want to tear down the walls of this tent?”

“Of course not, mistress” Black Bear said to her, before reaching down to help Daeron to his feet. “ _See_. Too much.”

“How do I do that?” Daeron asked. “How do I move myself?”

“You are still young” Black Bear told him. “Not strong. Yet. You are a boy. You cannot engage a man in a contest of strength and hope to win. You need distance.”

Black Bear pressed the tip of his sword into Daeron’s chest and pushed. It hurt Daeron but he moved back until Black Bear told him to stop. Daeron looked down and saw he was inches out of the wooden blade’s reach.

“Good” Black Bear. “ _Stay_.”

Black Bear stuck his arm straight out without advancing and couldn’t touch Daeron. With swiftness, Black Bear swiped at Daeron’s face. Daeron reflexively flinched and stumbled backwards in shock.

“Seven!”

“No!” Black Bear yelled. “Stay!”

Daeron took a breath and moved back to his position. Black Bear swiped at his face again and again missed.

“And?” Black Bear asked expectantly. Daeron saw that Black Bear kept his sword hand free of his body. So, he stepped forward and prodded him in the midsection. Black Bear smiled.

“ _That_ is how you move yourself. _That_ is how you fight.”

Their attention was drawn away when the entrance to his tent was drawn open and one of Visenya’s handmaidens stepped inside with a golden tray of food for Daeron. It was the blond one from Lys; she was decidedly pretty, beautiful even. She was even paler than he or his sister and her ocean-blue eyes stared into his own of purple-violet. Black Bear placed the wooden sword behind his back and stood up straight. Daeron, for his part, set his own wooden sword down. Jorah closed her book and watched intently. Daeron knew there was no hiding it then but he didn’t want to deal with Visenya knowing what he was doing.

“Your Highness, I’ve brought your meal for the evening.” Doreah approached him with the meal and gave a slight bow.

Jorah stood up and gave a bow towards Daeron. “Let’s have that be the end for today, your grace. Come, Black Bear.”

“Yes, mistress.” He turned back towards Daeron and gave a full, stiff bow. “Your grace.”

The pair made their way past Doreah towards the entrance.

“Tomorrow, please.” Daeron’s eyes darted between both of them. “Jorah, Black Bear; can we do this tomorrow as well?”

Black Bear looked to Jorah, whom nodded.

“Of course, your grace.”

Black Bear bowed again and took his leave.

“I apologize, your highness” Doreah said, setting his tray down on his low bedding, “if I interrupted.”

Daeron turned and approached her. “I know you serve my sister but I beg you, Doreah, please do _not_ speak of what you’ve seen to her. She would not approve and this has become very dear to me.”

“Your highness”, she whispered as she turned to face him, “are you hungry?”

He looked at the tray. He was served honey glazed gazelle, a vine of grapes, rice, berries and a goblet of red wine.

“It looks … delicious.”

She moved closer to his back. He sensed her and turned on her quickly, causing her to flinch and then giggle. She was a bit taller than he was and he grew nervous at how close she was after noticing her beauty. They were practically face to face.

“So nervous, your highness. Why? It is all for you. I … saw you, today.”

He gave her a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“You helped the settlement make camp. I saw you run and play with the children. You wish to help the khalasar even when it isn’t required of you. I watch you often, my prince. Even when you are just sitting in the plains, reading a book.”

“I – I don’t know what to say.”

“You should relax, my prince.” She pressed on his shoulders and gently guided him down to his covers. “You deserve this. Please … eat.”

“D-Doreah” he tried to speak as she leaned over him and went silent when she positioned her bosom in front of his face. “Doreah … what is this?”

She plucked a grape free and placed it in his open mouth, catching him by surprise. She used her finger to press it farther on his tongue. He watched her as he slowly chewed and brought his hand up to touch his lips where she touched him.

“I am afraid I have something to confess, sweet prince.” Doreah said with a brief sigh. “Khaleesi did not send me to just serve your meal.”

He was at a loss of words. He watched as she carried the tray from his bedding to his nearby table and turned back to face him.

“In truth, she wished me to demonstrate my _true_ talent. Khaleesi bought my services from a pleasure house in Lys.”

“Y-you’re a … courtesan?”

She swayed a bit as if dancing to some music he couldn’t hear and gently took his left hand into her own. He brought his hand up to her mouth and kissed his knuckles.

“Mmhmm” she hummed in answer. She parted his fingers and brought her mouth over his forefinger. He felt the light grazing of her teeth, the heat and the wet yet pleasing massage of her tongue. He then felt a gentle suction; she suckled.

This stirred an odd feeling in Daeron and he yanked his hand away. He inhaled as he retreated away from her. “I- I don’t think …”

She crept towards towards him, shushing him. “Relax, dear prince. Relax. Just enjoy. I will take care of you.”

She ran her hands through his hair, admiring the unique color and lightly grazed his scalp with her nails. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling as her every touch was pleasing. He gasped when she leaned over him and kissed his neck where it met his shoulders. She slid one leg over his and rested over his lap. She untied and removed her bodice; she placed Daeron’s hands on her breasts and guided him in kneading them. She placed one hand on the base of his head and softly kissed his temple. His eyes fluttered and his heartbeat intensified. She moved away and stared directly into his eyes. His eyes read that he was scared and excited all at once.

“Do you want this, my prince?”

“Y-yes.”

He took a deep breath. She slowly descended and kissed him softly on the lips. He clumsily followed her lead as her kisses slowly grew deeper. She giggled and leaned farther into him, intending to grow far more aggressive.

 

Still camped at Vaes Jini by mid-noon the following day, Daeron sat down to a meal with Black Bear and Jorah at a fire point. They had horsemeat, rice and boiled beets; Daeron decided he didn’t like neither the taste nor texture of horse but wished to endear himself to the Dothraki by eating what they ate. They had trained with the sword for two hours that morning and were then taking rest as Jorah didn’t wish to have Daeron exert himself too much.

“Do you think I should carry a sword?” Daeron asked suddenly as Jorah and Black Bear were eating.

Black Bear deferred to Jorah for an answer. “You are Prince and King” she told him after swallowing her mouthful of meat. “Of course, you can carry one if you wish. I can have a fine sword smithed for you in Qohor in two days. But do you wish to hear my personal opinion?”

“Of course.”

“You are not ready. I do not mean to tell you that you cannot carry a blade on your hip. My gods, whelps and squires have steel in King’s Landing but what I am saying is that I do not believe you are ready to _swing_ a sword.”

Daeron thought for a moment. “Then don’t smith one.”

“Your grace?”

“Jorah, I defer to your judgement on all matters. When you think I am ready for a sword, smith one for me.”

“Yes, your … grace.”

Her attention was drawn by an approaching young Dothraki man with curly black hair and a small rattail. He had a horn of liquor in his hand; Black Bear instinctively shifted and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. The Dothraki saw this and halted, holding up a hand in compliance. He spoke rapidly in Dothraki tongue.

Jorah listened intently and turned to Daeron. “He wishes to sit and share food and drink …”

“…And?” Daeron was curious after Jorah just let that hang.

“He wishes to speak with the true king of the seven kingdoms.”

Daeron eyes grew with vigor at this and he immediately motioned for him to sit. “Please.” It was true that he didn’t have a real desire for the throne but this was the first Dothraki adult whom had bothered to speak to him. He was interested.

Jorah cut her eyes to Black Bear, whom took his hand away from his sword but didn’t look any more at ease.

The man, or boy rather, excitedly sat cross-legged and reached out to strip away a chunk of the horseflesh. As he ate a mouthful, he uttered out some words and washed it down with his liquor.

Daeron looked to Jorah. “He’s just admiring the meat.”

When he finished, the boy burped and gave a long sigh. He then looked at Daeron and spoke while Jorah translated for him.

“His name is Rakharo. He is … from a great line like you. His father is Jaharro, a legendary warrior and bloodrider to Khal Bharbo, the greatest khal to ever roam these lands.”

“I thought Drogo was the greatest khal.”

Rakharo vehemently spit on the ground and spoke harshly upon Jorah’s translation.

“He says Drogo is a pissant compared to Khal Bharbo and his father.”

Daeron chuckled and leaned forward to take Rakharo’s hand. “I am Daeron Targaryen. A pleasure to meet you, Rakharo, son of Jaharro.”

Rakharo reached out and gave his hand one shake and nodded his head. “…Daeron” he repeated.

When Daeron returned to his original position, Rakharo continued to speak.

Jorah listened. “He apologizes but he wants to warn you of something. He sees that the khaleesi has an air of … I would say … superiority? Yes, superiority about her.”

“Yes, my sister has always been that way, at least with me.”

“You should warn her to take care” Jorah continued to translate. “Khal Drogo and his riders don’t respect either of you. She is not his equal in their eyes.”

“That is understandable” Daeron said. “She is an outsider.”

“No!” Rakharo suddenly exclaimed as if he understood and quickly talked to Jorah.

“He says all khaleesi are treated as their khal’s equal but not this time. This is not good.”

Daeron thought on this and nodded in understanding. “I understand. Thank you for your warning but why come to us with this?”

Rakharo struggled to speak and his words actually came out in Common Tongue. “You and I … same. Young. Unproven. I am … shamed, too.”

He said more in Dothraki which Jorah translated. “He struggles to meet his father’s legend.”

Daeron lowered his head and smiled, humbled. “Rakharo” he said, looking into his eyes, “I would like to be your friend, if you would accept me.”

Rakharo smiled and took a swig from his horn. He wiped his mouth and swirled the horn about in his hand for a moment; he then crawled forward and offered the horn. “Drink with me … friend.”

Daeron reluctantly crept forward and took the horn. He looked at the drink; a thick, creamy concoction that the Dothraki make from fermented milk. Its smell was sweet but it did carry a hint of spoiled milk as well so he tried to ignore it. He brought it to his lips and tried to heartily swallow some; it was his first alcoholic drink and the bitter taste attacked him. He immediately went into a coughing fit and held the horn away so as to protect it.

Rakharo burst into laughter. Jorah and Black Bear watched Daeron with concern but chuckled a bit when they saw that when Daeron move his arm away from his mouth, he was laughing as well.

 

Later, after Doreah pleased young Daeron, they lied on the ground entangled in his covers with his head in her lap while she played in his hair. He was reading a book he held upwards in front of him.

She took a clumped strand, parted it and spread it through the rest of his hair. “I really love your hair. Yours and Khaleesi’s. I often quarrel with Irri and Jhiqui because I love to brush her hair so much.”

“It is a trait we carried from Old Valyria. My sister told me we Targaryens have rarely bred outside of Valyrian lineage in order to keep it.”

“Along with those beautiful eyes of yours I’ll wager.”

Daeron looked from his pages up into her face with those violet-purple eyes in question. “Yes, our eyes as well.”

“You really like to read, don’t you?”

“I started when I was very young. It made me think of history or some far off land rather than the bleak situation I was in at the time. Also, it relaxes me.”

“You’re not relaxed, prince?” She asked with a smile.

“I’m in the arms of one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen and she wants to rut with me. How can I be relaxed?”

She gasped and leaned down to plant a longing kiss on his forehead. “Flattery will get you everything, young prince.”

“I’m am slightly embarrassed, however. You’re so intoxicating and … _experienced_ …”

“ _Experienced_?” she choked out, playing at being offended.

“…Well …learned?”

“ _Well-learned_? You make me sound like an old bat. I take back my flattery remark! You ruined it!”

“I’m sorry! Skilled, then?” She ran her nails through his hair with a haughty laugh. “I mean, I can’t be very good and you’re _very_ good. It makes me feel inadequate.”

“Young prince, you are still a boy becoming a man. Of course, you’re still learning. However, I can teach you. Teach you all the lovemaking techniques that will satisfy some future maiden who deserves it.”

She paused and waited for him to answer but he didn’t seem to be listening. She nudged him.

“My prince, this is the part where you charm me and say something like ‘of course _you_ deserve it, Doreah’.”

He turned the page forcefully in his book and startled her. He then flipped on his side quickly and read something with high interest, incredibly fixated on it.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He rolled over to his feet and began getting dressed. “I’m sorry, I …”

He trailed off and had a stunned, unfocused look in his eyes. He just moved to leave the tent.

Uncertain, she called out to him. “Do you want me to leave? Daeron …?”

He was already gone without addressing her.

 

Visenya was in her own tent, having new bruises oiled and remedied by her handmaidens Irri and Jhiqui. Daeron burst into her tent with the book in hand.

“Little Dae’, I didn’t call on you”. She had a scolding tone that became teasing. “Do you not find Doreah pleasing?”

“This isn’t about her.” Daeron said with grievance. “This is about you and your lies!”

He flung the book at her feet, causing the three ladies to flinch and Visenya to glare at him. She recognized it as one of Jorah’s.

“Page two hundred and one. Read it.”

Visenya lifted her chin in defiance. “Insolent child. I refuse. Why don’t you summarize it for us?”

He shook his head at her. “You always told me that the Usurper’s army marched against the throne on a weak claim. Unprovoked. That we were forced away from our home because of …”

At that moment the pitch of Daeron’s voice went high and gave out. He struggled to speak again through his anger while Visenya smiled. “We were forced away because of a _greedy_ barbarian who wanted the _crown_ and only had support because the other Houses were envious!”

Visenya began full-on chuckling as Daeron’s voice kept cracking mid-way through his sentences. “I’m sorry, little Dae’ but I can’t take you seriously when you speak. I thought you were finished with those prepubescent squeaks of yours but I guess not. I’ll only think of this moment from here on out. Now, leave us.”

“Mad King.”

That caused Visenya to cease all else and focus on Daeron before her. She gave him a gaze that burned at him, almost as if she wished him to flames. “What did you just say?”

“You …” he swallowed as he didn’t want his voice to crack again, “told me that father did all these great things. He tripled the crown’s wealth. He gave to the poor. He strengthened ties with in the seven kingdoms and built the largest royal army in history. You never told me that they called him …’the Mad King’.”

Visenya spoke to her handmaidens without looking their way. “Leave us.”

The two Dothraki girls immediately stood up and walked past Daeron to leave the tent. Visenya leaned back in the chair in which she was sitting and rested her chin on one knuckle as she continued to study him. They stared at each other silently for quite a while.

“The nerve of you.” She said finally. “I could have left you to die a long time ago. It would have been easier, you know. You contributed _nothing_ to our survival. All you ever did is sit there with that same stupid, woeful look on your face that you’re wearing right now. I fed you. I clothed you. I bathed you. I cleaned your shit! I even sold mother’s crown. You do realize that, don’t you? I sold the only thing I had to remember of my dear mother for _you_.” She pointed right at Daeron to emphasize this. “ _You_. You call me sister but I am not your sister! I am your mother, your father; your _everything_! Yet, you sit there and accuse me of … I don’t even know _what_.”

Daeron answered solemnly. “I just want the truth of it.”

“The fact that you question me at all is a slap in my face.”   

“I don’t want to fight with you, Visenya, but I know the real reason behind the war. Father burned the lord of Winterfell with wildfire and hung his son for protesting it. It was unjust and the people had every right to call him the Mad King if it’s true.”

“Unjust? It’s unjust to make demands of your ruler, which is exactly what the Starks did. They deserved to burn. Hells, I would have burned the whole family.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m deathly serious. It’s the first thing I will do after I return and reclaim my throne; I will march on Winterfell and slaughter every Stark. Every Stark. Every Baratheon. Every Lannister. They will all burn for their transgressions against me.”

“So, you’re going to be just like father? Another mad monarch?”

“Well, we can’t all be traitors like you and Rhaegar.”

Daeron grew confused. “What makes Rhaegar a traitor?”

Visenya smiled again. “Oh, you didn’t read that little part in Jorah’s book of fairy tales? Rhaegar was the real reason behind the war. Hells, the king was being a good father for the wayward prince. Our strapping elder brother was married to Princess Elia of Dorne and even had two children; a little girl and a little boy. Dornish brown, sure, but they would’ve had Targaryen blood. Do you want to know what our mythic, knightly brother did then? He ran off with a Stark cunt. That’s the real reason why father burned the Starks. They wanted the bitch back. Rhaegar didn’t want to give her back so father burned them. He protected the idiot.”

Daeron was in disbelief. “He … wouldn’t have done that. You always told me Rhaegar was a good man. He was a knight. He was …”

“Rhaegar was a moron. The men in our dynasty doomed us to ruin. I suppose it’s only right that I, Visenya, the namesake of the great Dragon Queen, will right the wrongs of my idiot brother’s mistake. But I don’t even blame him for the reason we are who we are. I blame _you_.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Don’t play stupid, little Dae’. You killed mother.”

Daeron felt like his heart dropped out of his chest at her words and he reeled as if she struck him again. “Don’t … say that.”

“It’s true. We fled because she was carrying you. Her presence would have raised father’s morale and he would’ve crushed the rebellion. You killed her with your birth. Of course, after the bastards from Braavos threw us out, you cried and cried and cried. For years, you have skulked around behind me and pulling at my skirts. You really are useless. Maybe I should have sold you as a slave; then I wouldn’t have to cater to a treasonous, unmanly, craven …”

He had enough and in a second, he lunged towards her; he knocked her over along with the chair in which she was seated and wrapped his hands around her throat. He pressed down with his thumbs as she gargled and choked; she reached up and yanked on his hair, pulling a mass of it out. He had tears in his eyes, but he was much too tempered to feel the pain. Tears filled her own eyes and her face grew red from the strain and lack of air; she reached up clawed his neck and face with her nails. Her right thumb reached up towards his eyes to gouge them but he instinctively pulled his face away when he felt her apply pressure. He grunted and squeezed down harder, causing her to choke out in pain. Eventually, her arms fell down weakly and she ceased to fight against him. He looked at her again and realized this. His emotions got the best of him but as he looked at her, he knew he didn’t want to kill her. He released his hold on her and placed a hand under her head.

“No no no. _Please_! Visenya, I’m sorry! Please, come back to me! I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes shot open after and she inhaled forcefully. He smiled and moved to hold her. She flailed and slapped at his face; she kicked at him and used her long legs to catapult him some feet away from her. She then scurried away from him in defense, unable to speak and still hyperventilating to catch her breath and steady her heartbeat. She struggled to catch hold of the chair that they knocked over. Distraught at what he did and her response, Daeron bounded to his feet and ran from her tent.

He ran until he was in his own tent and laid on the bedding. He was thankful that Doreah was gone for he wouldn’t have been able to contain his emotions in front of her. He stared at the roof motionless for he knew bloodriders would be sent for him shortly and he would have to answer for what he had done. In truth, he didn’t have an answer so he steeled himself for whatever was going to happen to him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler Alert but I guess you can say this is the point where shit starts to get "real" for Little Dae'.


	4. Unkindness/Dragons in Pain

** Jeyne **

 

 

She was so tired that though they approached the wall and she wanted to jump for joy, she could only manage a weak smile. Before its daunting black gate, she gazed upwards; several heavily coated men with torches were posted as sentries along its arches. Her uncle produced a horn from his coat and bellowed a long tone. It was different than pretty much every blow she had ever heard; likely to set itself apart for that very purpose. Several reverberating commands were shouted in response.

“Raise the gate! Raise the gate!”

The sentries went to work and she could hear gears turning; the system at work. A minute later, Benjen and his black brothers led them inside. Jeyne looked all around. Ghost stayed close to her ankles, alert for any danger to her human. Hard, flapping sounds drew her attention upwards; an unkindness of ravens traveled overhead. They were almost unnaturally large and she feared that they could eat a child. Old Nan once told her a tale of ravens that were maneaters and bloated from flesh.

The other side of the gate was Castle Black as she was told, one of the last manned strongholds of the Night’s Watch and home to the Lord Commander. Besides the castle, which wasn’t really a castle, there was an array of towers and sturdy yet decrepit buildings, some of which were long abandoned and falling apart. As Jeyne walked in the company of her namesake companion, she walked past many black brothers and servants at work in preparing for the day. Some were bringing chopped wood into the dining hall; others were bringing dead brothers in to be identified and laid to rest. Just about everybody stopped to stare at the new arrivals but especially the girls. She never felt more self-conscious in her life. She hated to think it but while Sansa and Jeyne Poole seemed to dream of strong, brave and chivalrous men from the south; Jeyne reserved those thoughts purely for the men of the Night’s Watch. She imagined strong, stocky, bearded men with axes and greatswords, with eyes that burned with fire; vigorous enemies to all wildlings and defenders of the realm. These _men_ , if she could call them that were all frail-looking; they seemed hungry _and_ frightened. She noticed that some of them didn’t even appear lustful towards herself and her steward; they averted their gaze and scurried away like scared rats. They were afraid.

It shook her and she tried not to be too disappointed.

The snow-capped rooftops reminded her of Winter town though this stronghold was far smaller in land area and far lower in upkeep quality. Her uncle and his men led them to what he called the Lord Commander’s tower. He told her that the lord commander wished to greet her and Tyrion Lannister in person. Tyrion’s royal guard traveled alongside her own, disciplined and nonverbal. She didn’t see how she was so important so as to make the lord’s acquaintance but she said nothing of it. The group entered the main hall of the lord tower where a steward guided Jeyne to a nearby fireplace.

“Please, warm yourself. The lord commander will see you shortly.”

The Jeynes gave each other looks of uncertainty but Jeyne Snow looked to Ghost whom settled down in front of the fire and seem to revel in its warmth.

She turned and gave a courteous nod to the steward. “Thank you.”

She turned to the fire and Jeyne Poole followed her. Though she loved the north, she found a certain comfort in the flames beyond what a common person would find in its heat. She got lost for a moment, wondering if a vision would reveal itself she looked hard enough. It occurred to her that these thoughts were likely blasphemous; they were more akin to the red god and rather than her old ones. Jeyne Poole spoke to her and distracted her from these thoughts, thankfully. “Did you see the way they looked at us?”

Jeyne didn’t need her to clarify what she meant. “Yes. Are you afraid?”

“ _Yes_. Aren’t you?”

“We have Ossard and Tomas and the others.”

“And you trust them?”

Jeyne looked at her then, her grey eyes shimmering under the flame’s light. “I trust my _father_. And he trusts them.”

That seemed to quiet Jeyne Poole, whom turned along with Jeyne when somebody called out to them and approached.

“It may be good fortune you came after all.” Tyrion approached the fire as well and addressed Jeyne. “This place could use a woman’s touch.”

“I don’t see what _I_ could do” Jeyne objected. “These are hard men.”

“Did they look _hard_ to you?” Tyrion scoffed.

Jeyne’s lack of a response gave away her agreement.

 “Ah, these are the infamous maidens … and the imp.” The man who approached was tall, well over six feet and well-built though he seemed quite a bit older than her father. His hard wrinkles, crow’s feet and general expression spoke of a man who’s been through many battles and survived a long winter or two. He wore black leather and a long cloak that hid his arms, making him even more imposing to her.

“Ah, Ser Alliser Thorne” Tyrion greeted.

Jeyne turned to him. “Ser?”

“Ah, yes. Ser Alliser is a knight from the Crownlands. He fought in the Great Rebellion. A shame that he fought on the losing side. My father gave him sweet mercy and let him take the black.”

Ser Alliser glared down at Tyrion with seeming animosity. “Yes, imp. Rehash old tales; I performed my duty then and I perform a different one now.”

“Yes, and what would that be?

“I am Master-at-Arms here.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Tell me, isn’t it the Master-at-Arms’ responsibility to train soldiers in warfare?”

“You know it is.”

“So, funny thing, but as I walked through the gates I had a talk with Lord Stark’s men and we came to a conclusion; those _men_ we passed on the way here, well, our girls Jeyne and Jeyne looked harder than them. Now, as Master-at-Arms, do you take responsibility for that?”

Ser Alliser stepped closer to him. With how incensed he looked, Jeyne thought the old knight might bodily lift Tyrion up and throw him into the fire.

“Perhaps you should take the black, _imp_. Experience my training for yourself.”

“And give up my lust for the fairer gender? I think not! Not while my cock is still working, at least!”

Jeyne stifled a small chuckle at that, drawing Ser Alliser’s primal scowl for a moment. Jeyne Poole groaned at the remark. Jeyne then second-guessed herself for a moment. While she expected Tyrion to stay with them a short while, she expected her own stay to be a bit longer. Meanwhile, she would have to deal with Ser Alliser and his aggressive scowl.

Benjen walked down the stairway with another large, bearded man in tow as well as a hunched elderly man dressed in black robes. Benjen directed them towards the group so Jeyne assumed he must be the lord commander. Ser Alliser half-turned and saw that the lord commander approached. He gave them one more look and departed without another remark. They watched as he pushed the front doors open and stepped outside to the yard.

Tyrion turned to the Jeynes. “How Rude.”

Benjen approached. “This is our lord commander, Jeor Mormont, and Castle Black’s maester, Aemon.”

Jeor Mormont; Jeyne Snow knew the name well. The Mormonts were the ruling house of Bear Island, a vital region of the North and they were valuable banners and vassals to House Stark. And Jeor was a bear of man, with the broad shoulders of a warrior half his age and a great, grey beard that hung to his chest. Although he was much older, she was sure he could put a hurting to every man at the Wall, including her own guards. Maester Aemon was different in most ways; he was much older and though he was nearly as tall, he was indisputably much frailer. He was practically swimming in his black robes; his thin, silver hair was matted on his head evenly which surprised Jeyne as she expected him to be balding. He never looked at them directly and kept his head high; when she caught a glimpse of the pale cataracts in his eyes she realized that he was aided by another steward. He was blind.

The Jeynes both bowed their heads. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lords.”

Jeor gave a low chuckle at this.

“What’s so funny?” asked Jeyne Poole.

Jeor spoke up. “I am no lord, girls. Just an old soldier too stubborn to die. None of that ‘my lord’ business. You are not even one of my men so you may call me Jeor.”

“What did they do?” asked Aemon.

Jeor didn’t take his eyes off of the girls. “They bowed when they called us lords, Aemon.”

“Ohhh, sweet girls” Aemon called as he crept towards them and reached out for them. After a moment’s pause, Jeyne reached out for him as well. He took her left hand in both of his and gently patted back of her palm with his own left. Somehow, touching his cold, leathery hands made her feel even more at ease. Although he didn’t physically feel warm, there was a certain indiscernible warmth to him.  “I am but a humble servant of the Citadel and the Night’s Watch. Not worthy of the high titles you seek for me.” She looked down at his hands, spotted and well-oiled. Hands that had seen two lifetimes worth of wonder, happiness, hardship and tragedy.

“My apologies, Maester” said Jeyne, whom smiled as Ghost padded over and licked Aemon’s fingers as they slipped to his sides.

“Ohhh, what wild thing do we have here? Yours, I presume.”

“Not _mine_ , per se; I don’t consider it that way. Her name is Ghost and she’s a young direwolf.” She looked down at Ghost lovingly as she said this. “I chose her and care for her. One day she will either choose to stay or … be free from me forever. I would … accept it either way.”

Jeyne thought Aemon would show concern at Ghost being a direwolf but the old maester smiled instead. “Hmm. How profound.”

Jeyne smiled back. “I’d like to think so.”

Jeor stepped forth. “Fine, fine; well and good.” He took Jeyne’s hands in much the same way Aemon had and shook them. “Jeyne, I have the utmost respect for Lord Stark as Warden of the North and he has always been our greatest ally away from it.”

Jeyne nodded. “He would be very pleased … Jeor.”

“No harm will come to you here” Jeor went on. “You have my word. Hells, looking at you now you remind me of my own daughter.”

He looked to Jeyne Poole. “And you! You’re the steward’s daughter? Her steward?”

Jeyne Poole stumbled in her words. “Y-yes, my lo- I mean yes … Jeor.”

“Hmph! It’s usually better practice for a steward-in-training to start with an elderly to get their feet wet. No offense, Maester.”

“Oh, bah!” Aemon waved it off.

Jeor continued. “You will stay in the King’s Tower, the finest quarters here. Your guards can work out a rotation, I’m sure. Our stewards will show you the way and where you can gather water. I’m sure the two of you would like a nice bath after your travels. I will see you at supper. Lord Tyrion, you will stay in the King’s Tower as well but I would like some words with you first.”

“Of course” answered Tyrion.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, lord commander” Jeyne said. “Maester.”

Jeor nodded. “We’ll speak later, Jeyne.”

 

The stewards took them up the King’s Tower’s winding staircase and to their quarters. Ghost slid by Jeyne’s legs, creeping into the room first to explore the new location. The first thing Jeyne noticed was that the window had a view and a balcony. Without so much as a glance at anything else, she dropped her bag to the floor and went there to throw the balcony doors open to step outside. Ghost followed suit to be by her side.

Tomas and Jeyne Poole exchanged a side glance before he sighed. “One of us will always be posted in the hallway. Just have her come to us if she needs anything.”

“Thank you, ser”. She bowed to him as he walked out.

“I’m not a ser.”

Jeyne Poole looked about the room uncomfortably with her hands folded in front of her, unsure of what else to do with them. The room for Jeyne was more than either of them were used to: with a bed fit for a king, his wife _and_ one or two of his servants, several tall lanterns for light, a long table stand with a looking glass, a grand wardrobe and several fine chairs. She moved towards the privy closet and opened the door to find the garderobe bench, which likely led to a moat somewhere beneath the tower as well as a stack of clean chamber pots and cleansing sponges on sticks. On a high shelf were stacks of brown cleaning rags. Below were two buckets; one was empty save for a few scrub brushes and the other was full of lye. She remembered that it would be her duty to clean Jeyne’s chamber pots and she was horrified. She backed out of the closet and continued familiarizing herself with their quarters. In a separate door just to the right of the closet was another door leading to the bath. The ironcast tub had a short boiler with small coals beneath it to heat the water. There was another shelf stacked high with clean towels, rags, oils and soaps. Just to the right of the washroom was another door leading to a conjoined room for her meager servant quarters. There were no windows so it was depressingly dark, only a bundle of covers for a mattress, a lantern on the floor and a small wardrobe against the wall.

She immediately shut the door and retreated back to Jeyne Snow. Eventually, Jeyne noticed her presence behind her.

“I’ll go with the stewards and fetch some bath water” Poole said to her. “I’m sure you’ll want to clean and relax after our travel.”

“Yes, but first come see this view” Jeyne said over her shoulder. “It’s amazing!”

She could see over the whole compound from their floor. From the training grounds where recruits were swinging swords at each other to the lord commander’s tower and castle black proper and the barracks; the dine hall and the lift to the top of the wall. She saw that it was steadily rising even then and could make out that two men working the gear levers, pushing it to the top of the Wall.

“Yes … well, I will return shortly” Jeyne Poole replied and quickly went from the room.

Jeyne turned in time to see the door close shut.

“Well, she’s no fun is she?” she said down to Ghost, who simply blinked back and licked her own snout.

Jeyne and Ghost went back inside the room with Jeyne closing the balcony doors behind them. She turned and sat on the bed; she pushed at it and bounced up and down to test its firmness and comfortability. It was much better than the one in her keep in Winterfell. She unlaced her boots and kicked each off across the floor. She then pushed herself upwards on the bed to where she could rest her head and back on the pillows. Ghost climbed on the bed beside her and laid her head on the young girl’s chest; her eyes drifted towards her human’s face. Jeyne softly scratched the direwolf’s head and ears.

“We’ll go out and see if we can hunt you down some food but first …” she gave a long yawn, “let me rest for a bit.”

 

She thought of Winterfell; its halls, pubs, yards, horse stalls, dog kennels, the steam baths, and its heart trees. Then she thought of her family. Wild, adorable Arya. Great, charismatic Robb. Precious Rickon. Poor, unfortunate Bran. Her father, whom she already missed dearly and longed to see his face. Even Lady Catelyn Stark, Winterfell’s lady who harbored no love for her but whom raised five siblings she herself would cherish forever. And the one regret she harbored concerning them; the distance that widened between them …

 

Little Jeyne used the half-embedded roots of a weirwood to pull herself over a moist knoll in the woods. She got her footing and stumbled in the fresh autumn leaves as she struggled to creep forward on the incline. The sun peaked through the trees overhead and she was forced to shield her eyes momentarily.

“Come on!” she called behind her. “You’re too slow!”

Throwing one leg up in her reddish-brown dress, pushing downwards with her arms while giving a low grunt, her little sister pushed herself over the tree’s roots just as she had.

“Jeyyyne!” Sansa cried out. “Don’t leave me!”

Jeyne laughed as she continued to scamper up the hill into the clearing. “Hurry!”

Sansa struggled to follow.

When Sansa finally came into the clearing, she saw it. The Great Heart Tree. A weirwood by nature; its branches and roots almost seemed like they extended across the entire wood.

“Jeyne! Jeyne!” Sansa called out for her sister, approaching the heart tree and looking all around. “Where are you?! You’re scaring me!”

As she neared, she focused on the tree’s carved face; mainly the large, hollow eyes and the mouth that seemed as if it was frozen in the midst of a raging bellow or a painful scream, depending on the perspective.

Though her head was auburn as perfect autumn leaves and her eyes were icy blue, she had northman in her blood. It was only natural that she felt drawn to it. She climbed between its roots and ran her small hands up its bark, feeling the edges of its mouth and where the nose would be.

Jeyne leapt from behind the tree, onto a root next to her and screamed. “Rawrrr!”

Sansa fell backwards on her behind and screamed as Jeyne leaned over her and started laughing.

Sansa pushed herself to her feet. “Jeyne! I’m gonna tell septa on you! You got my dress dirty!”

Sansa began brushing the leaves and dirt off of herself. After a bit more laughter, Jeyne helped her. She ran her hands through her sister’s hair to pull more leaf pieces out.

“Sorry, little wolf. I couldn’t help myself.”

“I’m not a wolf” Sansa protested. “I’m a princess.”

Jeyne chuckled again. “Fine, princess. Come with me.”

Jeyne took Sansa by the hand and led her back to the heart tree.

“Father says the heart tree is covenant to the old gods and that no lie can be told in front of it.”

“What would happen if I _did_ lie?”

Jeyne reiterated herself. “No! Lie!”

“Fine, fine! No Lie!” Then Sansa gasped as she realized. “Does that mean that all promises are binding? Before this tree?”

“Yes!”

“Thennn … you want to make a promise?”

Jeyne hugged her sister close. “I knew you were a bright one, little wolf.”

“Princess” Sansa corrected her.

Jeyne put one arm around her shoulders and faced her towards the heart tree. “We’ll make a promise to each other, here and now. As sisters.”

“What do you want to promise, Jeyne?” she asked. “Jeyne?”

 

_Jeyne? Jeyne? Jeyne?_

 

Jeyne shot up from the bed, rousing Ghost from her nap as well. She looked about and went over to the balcony. The recruits were no longer training in the yard below. Some time had passed, but how long? She turned around and went back into the rooms, searching about. Had Poole returned with the water?

“Jeyne?” she called out. “Jeyne?” She went over to the chamber closet and opened the door. “Jeyne?” She went to the bath and into the servant’s room. _Gone_ _still_?

 

Chrissen and Venyon were out in the hallway discussing politics.

“The queen doesn’t need big knockers, I tell ya. The hips are voluptuous enough. Just right. Three royal brats and it’s still fit and firm.” Chrissen whistled, just thinking about the queen in her royal golden gown.

“Right, but have you been to Dorne?” Venyon asked with a chuckle. “Brown tits and rumps that make Queen Cersei look like a ten-year old boy.”

“Not my Cersei.”

“I had this wench called Sand, mate. Built like a stallion with a behind thicker than mine that doesn’t move until you slap it. _Hard_. Imagine riding _that_ from behind. Chocolate nipples the size of silver stags.”

“Eh, that doesn’t appeal to me. At all. You can have your Dornish mules. I thought you were a northman. Why slum to brown flesh?”

“A true northman can handle fillies of all ethnicities. And you sound like a bigot, boy.”

The door to Jeyne’s quarters was flung open and Jeyne poked her head out into the hallway, peeking down both sides of the corridor.

“How long has it been?” she demanded to know. “Since I’ve been in there?”

“I don’t know” Chrissen replied with a shrug. “An hour? A day? A decade? Did you know that you snore? _Really_ loud.”

He and Venyon shared a chuckle. Jeyne shook her head.

“Fools” she called them. “Have you seen Jeyne? Has she been back?”

“Now …” Chrissen said with a pause, “I thought _you_ were Jeyne? She is Jeyne, right?”

Vanyon played along. “I thought so. But again, Jeyne is a very common name. Are we sure we have the right one?”  


“Let’s find out.” Chrissen turned to Jeyne and talked to her as if she were simple. “Who’s your mother again, bastard-girl?”

Jeyne was not amused. “You’re not funny. Go find her. Now.”

She moved to close the door but Chrissen stepped forth and held it open.

“Hold it, Snow” Chrissen said. “We are to make sure your bastard head isn’t split open and that’s it. You are neither our mistress nor master. Now, go back inside and lay down with your bitch.”

Snow looked into his eyes for a moment and slammed the door shut. Chrissen stepped away and gave Venyon a smile, who shook his head at him.

Moments later, Jeyne reopened the door and stepped out in the hallway in front of them with her winter boots back on. She fastened a wolfskin cloak over her shoulders and looked back over shoulder. “Come, Ghost.”

She looked right at both of them. “I’m going to find Jeyne. You’re welcome to follow and make sure my bastard head isn’t split open.”

She started down the hall with Ghost close behind. The two northmen gave each other a look and followed shortly after.

 

Jeyne and Ghost quickly departed the King’s Tower; Jeyne looked around in all directions. She spotted a group of young boys carrying logs and approached them.

“You, boy!” she called out to one of them.

“M-me?” he stammered at the sight of her.

“Yes, you. Where do you get fresh water?”

“U-um. The well’s just over there.”

He turned and pointed out the well and lever. It was some distance away and she could see a line of men formed at it but she had a clear view to it; Jeyne was nowhere in sight.

She turned back to him. “Did you see another maiden?”

“A-another maiden?”

Chrissen rubbed his hair in frustration. “Come on, boy. It’s the _one_ other girl on the Wall. This isn’t difficult.”

He looked shaken and hesitated to speak.

“I saw her, ser.” Another young man near him said.

 

Jeyne Poole cries out as she is pushed into the work bench in the Armory shack. Hanging axes, swords and spears rattled around her as she struggled against her attacker, a new recruit in the Night’s Watch. He was one that had traveled with the party the previous day and evening; he had watched the Jeynes and picked his opportunity. He couldn’t help himself truly; he had the nature of a predator.

“Help me, idiots!”

With great trepidation, his two fellow recruits advanced forward and put hands on the flailing Jeyne as she tried her best to wriggle from beneath their grasp.

“Help me!” she wailed out.

The young man leading the assault reached out and lifted a blacksmith hammer from nearby. He slammed it hard on the table just to the right of her head, shocking her motionless.

“Stop. Moving.” When he was satisfied with her compliance, he stroked her right cheek and traced his fingers along her face until he lined her skin under her chin. She let loose some short sobs in response.

“You’re a pretty lass, ain’t ya?” he whispered. “Come on, now. It’s a compliment now, innit?”

Just as Jeyne began to whimper and cower away from them again, the shack door opened behind them.

“Somebody’s here!” one of them shouted.

They looked over and saw that Tyrion Lannister entered alone.

“Heh, it’s just the imp.” the intended rapist said as he turned back to Jeyne. “Best leave now, imp! Before you get one of these blades to that oversized head of yours!”

“It’s quite imprudent to threaten a man, an imp even, when he is protected by royal guards of the throne … but that clearly doesn’t matter to you, _Rast_ ” he said. “I mean, you were nearly _castrated_ for your previous rapes; but yet here you are, at it again. Clearly, you can’t help yourself.”

Hearing his unsavory actions and nature laid bare gave the leading perpetuator, Rast, pause. Then Tyrion turned on the others. “And you two; Pyp and Grenn. Do you think the lord commander will go easy on you even if you don’t have a go at her? You have _all_ doomed yourselves. Depending on how hard or lenient he is on you, I may take you away to …”

He trailed off as the door was flung opened behind him and a cloaked Jeyne Snow entered into the shack. Tyrion turned and looked at her curiously.

“Now, miss Snow” he said, “I think the boys are re …”

She grabbed the thing nearest to her, which happened to be the coal shovel. She yelled in rage as she rushed on Rast and swung at his head horizontally, bashing him in his right ear and sending him away from Jeyne Poole with a loud thud.

Tyrion called out to her to calm her down several times to no avail.

She turned on Pyp next, who cowered away from her. She swung on him several times in the arms and legs as he cried out in pain and tried to guard himself. Grenn, stocky and muscular for his age, ran over and cradled her from behind. They both pulled both ends of the shovel but he pulled it into her chest and lifted her off of her feet. She struggled hard against him, yelling out like an animal rather than the young girl she looked.

Grenn found her stronger than her appearance as well. Holding her was like trying hold a bag of tempered badgers. She found her footing several times and pulled him back and forth. He amazed himself that he was able to hold her. He was too preoccupied to hear the door open again. Their attention was drawn by the sound of a drawn sword.

Jeyne’s guards, Venyon and Chrissen, along with her direwolf had entered. They each drew their swords. Ghost crept forward in cautious fury, keeping her eyes on Grenn.

“Unhand the girl, boy” Venyon warned. “Before we open ye’ up.”

“I din’t mean anything!” Grenn offered. “I-I thought he just wanted to scare the girl! Din’t know … din’t know it was ‘bout _that_!”

“Gods damn it, Grenn!” yelled Tyrion. “Just think! They don’t care about that! They are those girl’s protectors! Let her go or they _will_ kill you!”

Slowly, he released the shovel and Jeyne moved away from him.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Please, don’t.”

Jeyne took a few steps away from Grenn before swiftly turning on him and swinging the flat iron end across his face. Blood spurted from Grenn’s mouth as his neck snapped sharply to the left and he dropped to one knee before crumbling backwards. She advanced on him, bringing the shovel high over her head and intended to bring it down over his head.

“Jeyne!” Tyrion shouted.

She paused at the sound of her name, breathing roughly as she still held it above her head.

“That’s enough!” Tyrion went on. “Look at him!”

Jeyne finally did. The boy was large but he was still a boy; even she could see that in her enraged state. He coughed as he laid on his side and spit up more blood. She flung the shovel away from her, slightly ashamed of herself but surely not enough to show it. She went to Jeyne Poole.

“Jeyne.” She called out to her before pulling the younger girl towards her. Jeyne Poole hung loosely against Jeyne so much that she almost had to hold the girl up.

She turned on her guards. “You will protect her as well as me.”

“We will not” Chrissen stated. “Remember what I said before.”

She remembered that they were her guards but not her servants. “Be reasonable.”

“I am. If I give on this, when will it end? I am a soldier, not your steward.”

“I will write two letters” Jeyne told him. “One to my brother, the acting lord of Winterfell, and one will be waiting in King’s Landing for my father. What do you think they will say?”

Chrissen said nothing.

“Good” she said. “Now, do as I say and help me get this poor girl to the King’s tower.”

“Just a minute, Miss Snow” Tyrion called out.

As Venyon moved over to help Jeyne with her young, distraught steward, Jeyne turned on him seethed.

“What?”

“I hope there’s a little tenderness in you to go with your newfound violence.” He fetched inside his pocket to pull out a rolled letter for her and offered it. “Your brother, Bran. He’s awake.”

She left Jeyne to Venyon and quickly snatched it away.

 

When Jeyne, Venyon and Chrissen brought young Jeyne Poole to their room in the tower, the young girl seemed to come back to life. She moved about the room on her own, though a bit dazed. Jeyne Snow watched as Ghost padded over to the foot of their bed and curled up for another nap. Jeyne curiously followed her steward as she stood before the bath.

“Oh, no …” the girl said, barely audible above a whisper.

“Jeyne?” she called out to her. “What’s wrong?”

“I never got your water for your bath …”

“It’s fine. I’ll get the boys to do it.”

Jeyne opened the door in the hallway to talk to Chrissen and Venyon. “We need bath water. Jeyne is obviously not up to it.”

“This as well?”

“You’re mine now” she told them. “Do it.”

She closed the door in their faces.

Chrissen’s eyes narrowed and he was noticeably incensed. Venyon chuckled at the young man.

“See what you did?” he teased.

Jeyne went back inside just as her young counterpart went inside her servant quarters door and closed it behind her. She sighed and went over to sit at her desk. He pulled her letter from her sleeve and unrolled it. It had obviously been unsealed and read several times over.

 _For the old gods’ sake_ , she thought. _He’s my brother. Is there no privacy?_

She read it multiple times over all the same. The news was bittersweet.

“What is Bran’s condition?”

Jeyne turned in her chair to see that Jeyne Poole had re-entered the room. Jeyne could see it in her eyes that she had been crying. She choked out her next words. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Jeyne relented and nodded solemnly. “He’s awake but he’ll never walk again.”

“Poor Bran. He so loved to climb, didn’t he?”

Jeyne stood up from her desk and walked over to her. “He did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. For what happened to you.”

Jeyne Poole said nothing. She lowered her head, avoiding Jeyne’s eyes. Jeyne went to hug her but she recognized this and pulled away.

“I-I  ...”

Jeyne pulled her in towards her and held her close. She whispered into her ear. “We _both_ need this, I think.”

Jeyne wrapped her arms around the shaking girl and felt her hands slowly creep up her own back. She felt her shake with sobs as cried into her shoulder. “Oh, _Jeyne_. I hate this place.” She didn’t particularly fault her either as the seeds of resentment began to grow inside her as well.

When Chrissen and Venyon returned with buckets of water, Jeyne Poole dutifully poured it into their bath and heated it.

Jeyne Poole found her sitting at her desk, writing a letter of her own with an inkfeather. “Your bath is ready” she announced.

“Good” Jeyne said, without looking back. “Now, get in it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ll have first bath, Jeyne.” She turned and looked at her. “No more argument.” She turned back to writing her letter. She messed up on a word and growled at herself. She balled that paper into a ball and tossed it aside before grabbing another.

Stunned, Jeyne Poole finally nodded. “As you wish.” She retreated back to the bath.

 

Later, the brothers at Castle Black were gathered in the dine hall for supper. The Lord Commander Jeor Mormont was seated at a table with his advisors including Maester Aemon and Ser Alliser Thorne. He dipped his rough, low-quality bread into his stew as he discussed upcoming training plans and ranging parties. Jeyne Poole cautiously approached him with Tomas, a Stark guard at her side.

“Lord Commander, I’m sorry to interrupt.” She looked about at them nervously. Being around so many men alone made her less nervous and closer to terrified.

“Ah, no worries, miss Poole.” Jeor said with a gracious smile. “I expected both you and miss Snow to join me for dinner this evening. Again, I insist you call me Jeor.”

“Yes … Jeor” she said. “I’m sorry but I’ve come to inform you that she apologizes but she won’t be supping in the dine hall this evening. I hope to bring her meal to her tonight.”

“But, of course. And I’m sorry to hear that. But you’re more than to welcome to take your meals in the king’s tower.”

“Thank you, Jeor.” She bowed her head and began to depart.

“Oh! Miss Poole! I heard that despicable event that occurred earlier this evening and I assure you that those deviants won’t bother you again. I want you to know that behavior such as that is not normalcy at Castle Black and they will be severely punished.”

 _Can you truly protect us from all of Castle Black?_ She thought but didn’t say. Hearing that the lord commander was sympathetic and planned to punish her attackers didn’t make her feel any better. Why couldn’t she have gone to King’s Landing with her father and Sansa? Why did her father allow her to be sent to such a place? Why couldn’t she have stayed home in Winter town with her mother? They were questions she asked herself over and over in her mind, hoping the old gods might speak to her and provide an answer. But no, she had already been told they don’t work that way. So, like everything else she swallowed it and accepted it for it was nothing that she could change. She intended to return a tray to her lady, the bastard Stark.

“Thank you” she said to Jeor Mormont with another bow. “Have a good evening, Jeor.”

 

Ossard overtook Chrissen and Venyon on guard duty and thus escorted Jeyne Snow and her Ghost to the lift. Jeyne noticed a few workers shoveling snow from the yards and saw a posted man by the lift’s wheel lever.

“I suspect Venyon informed you of the change in your duties?” Jeyne prodded at Ossard as they approached the lift. She turned to the lift man. “We’re going up.”

The lift man nodded.

“He told me what happened” Ossard replied, answering her question. “A damn shame, it is.”

Ossard opened the lift door for her. “After you, miss Snow.”

Jeyne gave him a look before she stepped inside with Ghost at her side. He got inside shortly after and locked it. A few moments later, the lift began to rise as the lift man had set to work turning his wheel.

The higher they went, the more it seemed the wind picked up and the snowfall’s fury was greater. Ghost settled and laid on the lift floor. Ossard noticed that Jeyne attempted to pull the cloak tighter around herself from the inside and retreated into it a bit.

“Not used to _real_ cold yet, are ye?” he chided.

“I’m of the north” she growled. “I’ll get used to it.”

He simply chuckled at that.

She ventured a look up and saw that they were among the ravens then. Some were flying out. _To deliver messages?_ She wondered. She looked at Ossard. He was a gruffy man, with a scarred exterior. He had a thick, bushy man of dark hair and a thick beard to go with it. One eye was pale white and likely blind. The other was half closed at all times and had a slashing scar crossing over his forehead, eyelid and near his nose underneath it.

“Can you see well?”

He smiled at her again. “I see fine.”

“What happened to your eyes, if I may ask?”

“One was flamed out. I was captured and tortured. A _raven_ almost took the other one, believe it or not.” He nodded to the departing ravens.

As they neared the top of the wall proper, she noticed no more ravens.

“Even the ravens aren’t dumb enough to come this high.” He commented. “What does that say about us?”

When the lift came to the halt at the top, Ossard unbolted the lock for her and pushed the door open. She stepped through and looked back to him as she lowered her head to shield her face from the winded snow.

“Stay here! I’ll go ahead alone!”

“You don’t think you can fall from atop here?” he protested.

“I’ll be fine!” she assured him. She turned and moved on, Ghost at her heel.

The cold was blistering and biting atop the wall and she could barely see through the aggressive wind but the walk was cathartic for her nonetheless. Her entire life she had heard tales of the wall and the great battles against wilding invasions and such. She had always imagined the Wall as a great achievement of the First Men and the world’s greatest wonder. While the Night’s Watch true nature fell well beneath her expectations, the Wall itself still maintained its brilliance in her eyes. An impossible structure of ice and stone that stretched the horizon, she could ill imagine its creation; it was the only indisputable proof of magic in the world. Castle Black, the Night’s Watch and likely all man-made forts along its shape paled in comparison.

It was all white; for the top of the wall was blanketed in snow. All along its peak to the guard tower were stone battlements taller than she. The fact that the Wall had battlements at all gave her pause. What was the point of having such things? What fool would try to invade such a place? She gave a restrained gaze between the battlements. A view down over the vast wilderness that many men dared not to venture and where countless souls were lost forever, hidden even from the old gods some said. Old Nan’s tales spoke of savage and cannibalistic wildlings that dwelled there, using the bones of lost northern men for weapons; and daughters and wives for whores or worse. Still, some said that worst things existed beyond even the wildling lands; wild direwolves, giants and the inhuman Others. Just looking out over it, she was filled with dread. Still, she wanted to see; she had dreams and longings for what was beyond the wall. Something beckoned to her; not a voice exactly but demanding all the same.

She turned away and continued on towards the guard tower. She passed a man on watch duty, seated before a balefire for warmth. Just at the guard tower, her uncle was seated between the battlements and beside another fire.

He rose at her approach, which he recognized from her form and that of her direwolf beside her.  

“Uncle …” she said as she threw herself into his arms upon reaching him, briefly squeezing his back.

He felt her shiver against him. “You’re cold?”

“Of course! I’ve never felt an angrier wind!” She slid away from him and hugged her cloak to herself again. She looked briefly down at Ghost, whom stared undeterred out at the wilderness beyond the Wall. Did she know she came from there? Did she think that her true home?

“Now, you’re beginning to understand our strife!” Benjen stated. He brought her attention back between the battlements to wilderness. “I’m glad to be here for your first sight beyond the Wall. You’ve always begged me for it. So what do you think?”

Jeyne looked out again, not answering. She grew somber.

“Not as wonderful as you thought it would be, is it? Do you see now why even brave men are afraid?”

“How far have you been, uncle? Beyond the Wall?”

“Farther than any man living. But not nearly as far as you can see. And there’s even more yet.” She grew concerned at that.

“Please don’t be _too_ brave, uncle.”

“I’m a brave man but not a stupid one, my niece.”

She looked down over the edge. It was what some men have called The Edge of the World.

“Do you the black brothers ever throw criminals from the Wall?”

He sighed. “I’ve heard what happened today to Jeyne Poole. I’m ashamed it happened here. But no, we don’t throw people from the Wall.”

“I think maybe you should.”

He looked at her pointedly. “Well, then it’s a good thing it isn’t up to you. That isn’t a humane death, Jeyne.”

She looked at him. “They tried to rape her. That wasn’t very humane.”

“I understand; and they will be punished for their crime. But by the lord commander, not you.”

“I’m sure.” She muttered.

He caught that. “What was that?”

She thought of biting her tongue but unwisely didn’t. “I’m not a little girl anymore, uncle. I understand how the world works. They’ll get a swat on the ass and little else; and we’ll be expected to shut up about it because we’re girls.”

He moved closer to her. “Listen to me, Jeyne. You’re _not_ one of us. You don’t know how _anything_ works. I suggest you drop this now because you’re beginning to anger me. Right now, you’re pandering to cruelty. You’re going against everything you’ve been taught both as a Stark and a child of the old gods.”

Jeyne realized this. Neither the old gods nor her father would approve of the notion. She relented and lowered her head.

“Please forgive me, uncle. I was wrong to think such things. Forget I said anything.”

  
He gave another sigh and patted her softly on the head, implying his forgiveness. He looked away from her, out to the Beyond.  

“I’m set to leave tonight. I’m to lead a great ranging party.”

“Already?” she questioned. “But I just got here.”

“I’m the First Ranger. It can’t be helped. There have been disturbing reports.”

“Disturbing? How?”

“You don’t want to know. I’ll just say it’s enough for a month-long investigation.”

“A month? Uncle …”

“I’ll not hear it, Jeyne. You’ll be fine here and I will return before you know it.”

Jeyne couldn’t help but start to feel a bit abandoned. While she indeed wanted to see the Wall, she couldn’t help but begin to feel that there was a tangible aura of dread there. Her father had sent her there and then her uncle was leaving her as well. She felt a tinge of resentment rise in her again but she chose not to speak on it.

She peered down again. “Have you heard that Bran’s awake?”

“Yes.”

“And that he’ll never walk again.”

“Yes.”  
“I’m so sad for him. Bran was an adventurer. I was sure he’d travel the world twice over.”

“He isn’t dead, Jeyne.”

“It’s just …”

He looked at her and saw the sorrow in her. He pulled her in close and embraced her.

“Uncle …” she pushed herself closer into him. She thought of her odd dream back in her keep in Winterfell. Of the cave on their trek to the journey; the arm in Ghost’s maw. “What happened in that cave?”

“A wildling attack that was quickly repelled” he answered quickly. “They took a few of our men and ran when we beat them back.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “I love you, Jeyne.”

“I love you too, uncle.”

“Now, I must prepare to head out.” He said as he parted from her. “Don’t do anything rash and stay safe, Jeyne. We will speak more when I return.”

He turned on his heel and walked across the walltop away from her. She watched him for a short while before she crouched next to the balefire to warm herself. She rubbed her hands before it and drew Ghost close to her. She rubbed Ghost’s neck and back as she turned and looked back out into the Beyond. In the distance, she noticed that a small fire had ignited in the distance though on second thought she realized that it must’ve actually been a great fire accounting for her distance.

_Is it a Ranging party? Or is it wildlings?_

She didn’t dare to think it could be anything else.

 

 

 

** Daeron **

****

 

It never came. The retribution he knew he deserved. He laid awake on his bedding all through the night, staring up at the roof of his tent. He raised the palm of his hands before his eyes. The very hands that found Visenya’s throat and constricted. He could see her strained face go purple; the veins protrude in her neck and forehead. The feel of her body go limp and lifeless beneath him.

_Sister …_

Why did she not send Khal Drogo’s bloodriders for him? Or some other Dothraki?

Even the morning brought no answers. An hour after dawnbreak and a quick morning meal, he found himself rushed to dress by maidens who spoke ill common tongue. He hurriedly put on a woolen vest and pants fastened with a drawstring as well as brown leather sandals. He was quickly rushed outside his tent as workers set about dismantling it and preparing it for transport. He watched them put valuable belongings into chests and more with wavering attention. He involuntarily swayed to and fro; his senses were dulled. Sounds around were dampened and raised to uneven pitch and his vision blurred. The lack of sleep was affecting him. He looked to his right as two Dothraki men passed and they locked eyes. Daeron’s eyes honed in on the arakhs hanging from their right hips. Their scowls betrayed their murderous intent.

_They know what I did._

Somebody placed their hand on his left shoulder.

“Morn-“ she began to say as he jumped away from her and saw that it was Jorah and Black Bear whom had approached.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Is everything all right?”

He inhaled and opened his eyes wide. “Y-yes. Of course it is.”

“I have to say, your grace, you’re not looking well. We’re not too far from Qohor. We can escort you there and arrange safe travel back to the magister’s manse in Pentos.”

The idea of that was tempting to him but then he thought of appearance.

_After everything she said to me, how would I look if I ran away now? No. I have to face her. If I don’t, I’ll lose her forever._

“Nonsense. I go where my sister goes. Khal Drogo will honor our agreement.”

Jorah hesitated. “Right. Yes. Well, the khalasar is on the move again. We’d best ready our horses.”

“Of course” he hastily agreed. “Well, what are we waiting for?” He walked past them to the horse handlers. Jorah gave Black Bear a look of concern for the Targaryen prince before the two of them followed.

 

The Stone Road soon returned to grass for the traveling khalasar. Young Daeron dozed multiple times on horseback, swaying and dipping his head low multiple times. Jorah saw this and gestured to Rakharo, who rode beside them then. Rakharo reached out and shook him, almost pushing the boy from his horse.

“Your grace!” Jorah called out to him, drawing his attention. “Come with me! Now!”

He watched as she broke ranks of the khalasar and brought her horse out into the plains beside the road. Cautiously, he, Black Bear and Rakharo followed. When he arrived, she stepped down from her horse. The three of them followed suit. She turned on him and for the first time since he had met her, he saw that she was actually angry with him.

“What is the matter with you?!” she asked him straight on.

“I-I don’t know what you mean” he stammered.

“You almost fell off your horse and got trampled! Did you sleep at _all_?”

“You don’t look well, prince” Black Bear commented.

Daeron’s eyes wandered back to the khalasar to his left. A figure in a blue silken cloak worn from head to toe on a silver passed them. Momentarily, the head turned in his direction and amethyst eyes stared back into his own. It was unmistakable.

 _Visenya_ …

“Focus!” Jorah shouted as she clapped her hands to draw his attention back to her.

As he looked at her for a few seconds, she began shaking her head.

“This is ridiculous” she said as she began to mount her horse again. “You’re riding horseback with Black Bear.”

“…No” he murmured weakly.

“Not good for prince” said Rakharo.

“You’re not getting back on your horse” Jorah told him as she pushed herself up on her mount and seated on her steed. “I can’t trust that you won’t kill or seriously injure yourself.”

“Jorah …” He went to her and place a hand on her horse’s side.

“Your grace, I’m only trying to p …”

“Jorah!” he raised his voice to her, for the first time ever. “I will ride my horse! Riding passenger in a khalasar?! I may as well ride in a cart! Or not at all! I am a king, or at least a prince! I will not be looked down upon by anyone!”

Jorah, Black Bear and Rakharo were all speechless. Daeron found it hard to read their faces. He just couldn’t focus on anything. He scratched his head in frustration and took a step back from Jorah’s horse.

“Jorah … I’m sorry.”

Jorah slowly shook her head. “No, you’re right. The khalasar wouldn’t look kindly on anybody who didn’t ride their own horse, especially a prince. I wasn’t thinking of that. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Jorah. I know you wish to protect me. But I have to be respected as well. I think the khalasar cares for me so little already. I intend to grow as much as I can in _any_ way that I can, Jorah. Doing _that_ will do more harm than good.”

“You are a good boy, young Daeron” Jorah dipped her head at him after a short while. “You’ll make a fine man and an even finer king one day. I suppose we will just have to ride close to keep you from breaking your neck.”

Daeron smiled up at her. “Thank you, Jorah. I will never forget your devotion. Ever.”

He patted her horse before he stepped away towards his own. He, Rakharo and Black Bear all mounted their stallions.

“I do believe this has sobered me, actually!” Daeron shouted back at Jorah as he and Rakharo rejoined the khalasar. Black Bear started back as well but stopped when he realized Jorah hadn’t moved from her spot.

He turned his stallion back towards her. She had bent her head low, as if in sorrow and burdened with something. He wished to take that burden off of her.

“Mistress?” he called out to her.

She looked over to him and beckoned him closer with a crooked finger.

 

 The way the rest of the day ensued was practically torture for Daeron. It was a good thing Jorah had kept herself and Black Bear close for it kept him mindful that he had to maintain his discipline and wits. He thanked the Seven a thousand times over when it was well past mid-day and it seemed the khalasar intended to make camp yet again. He didn’t know if he could last much longer. He slid meekly down his mount and stumbled down to the ground.

Horse handlers were moving down the rows of the khalasar to settle the horses.

“Where are we now?” Daeron asked Jorah, as she dismounted her own horse.

“Ehhh … We have to be near Vaes Dothrak, honestly. For we have already left Jini. I can’t imagine why we have stopped again.”

 “Well, I’m glad we did.” Daeron said as he attempted to stretch his back. “I’m not sure how much longer I can ride today. Perhaps I’ll ask Doreah for a massage later.”

Jorah watched Daeron as he took the tie out of his hair and let his hair fall along his back. Even though it hadn’t seen any oil for more than a week, it maintained its wavy untangled form and a brilliant shine. It was much longer than her own thin blonde mane. She was somewhat jealous. She was also worried for the boy in his relations to the pleasure maiden.

“You and the girl seem to have grown close.”

Daeron gave Jorah an emphatic look.

Jorah went on. “I just warn you to be wary of her. It was your sister that bought her and she may not have your best interest in mind.”

“I appreciate your concern but I don’t think we need to worry about an assassin from my sister.”

Jorah thought of saying something but chose not to; she would keep an eye on the girl or have Black Bear do so.

Daeron pulled his leather bottle from his saddlebag.

“I’ll go down to the riverbed and rest for a bit. I’m about to fall over.”

“I’ll send Black Bear with you” she offered.

Daeron touched her shoulder. “It’s not necessary. I’ll have quiet. If I take too long, you can have him check on me.”

He then slipped away from her and the khalasar into the high grass.

He filled his leather bottle from the nearby lake and supped from it as he laid on the small knoll nearby. He napped shortly afterwards thinking of happier times with his sister and the charms of Doreah. Sweet memories and such. He awakened later to the soft humming of Visenya’s handmaidens gathering water.

He looked down and saw them; two brown-skinned Dothraki girls a few years older than him but younger than Visenya. He had that heard their names were Irri and Jhiqui; Irri was slender and delicate in appearance despite her Dothraki heritage while Jhiqui was considerably bigger boned, fuller in waist, bust, buttocks and thighs. He rose and gravitated towards them.

“Greetings” he called out as he neared.

“P-Prince.”

“Young Prince.”

Irri seemed nervous to meet him while Jhiqui’s demeanor matched her further physical development. She seemed much more confident.

“You gather water for my sister?”

“Yes, prince” Jhiqui answered. “She wishes a bath. Perhaps hot water will soothe her wounds.”

He winced at the mention of her wounds. The image of her strained face and his hands wrapped her throat flashed across his mind again. He looked away from them in shame.

“Tell my sister that I am sorry and that I wish to meet with her. To atone. She can have a Dothraki man present if she’d like.”

“Yes, prince” Jhiqui said and the two gave a slight bow of their heads before they took some time to gather their bales of water and depart. Daeron returned to the knoll.

Looking out over the creek, he wondered if it was possible the waters could wash away the pain he continuously felt. A reason why he wished to see his sister was to see if her physical pain matched his own mental anguish. He first peeled away his shirt, then his trousers and kicked away his sandals afterwards.

Black Bear came into the clearing, searching for Daeron. He had politely asked Visenya’s handmaidens whether they had seen the boy and was directed to the lake.

He came to find a nude Daeron walking into the waters as if in a trance.

Curious, he stepped towards the shore and watched the water intently.

Eventually, he saw him break the surface again in the middle of the lake. The way Daeron’s hair rose in a high arc above his head and the way he gave an infectious laugh at the sight of him, made him believe the boy was something special.

Daeron casually tread water as he smoothed his wet hair backwards and laid flat on his back over the surface. Through slitted eyelids, he gazed towards the sunlight and felt more at peace than he had been in a while.

 

Though he was dressed in drier attire when he later found himself in Visenya’s newly erected tent, his hair was damp and shimmering silver. Visenya ignored him at first as she always did so he found his eyes wander to the left; the dragon stone eggs were prominently displayed in their velvet golden chest over a royal golden cushion surrounded by an arrangement of high-burning candles.

Irri and Jhiqui were dabbing Visenya’s recent bruises with rags dipped in poultices and medicines. Irri tapped Visenya on her bruised collarbone, a highly sensitive area. Visenya gave a sharp hiss. Daeron closed his eyes for he knew what was coming. For her part, Irri timidly cowered away as she already knew Visenya’s wrath well.

“Bitch!” Visenya shouted down at the Dothraki girl as she half-pushed, half-punched her in the face and put her down on the ground by her feet. “Get away, you useless whore!” She turned on Jhiqui in a mad fury, who flinched away from her. “You too, you cow! Hah! I should just call you by your true names from now on! Bitch and Cow! Bitch and Cow! How would you like that?”

She looked down at the two of them and they stared back with wide, cowering eyes. She looked between the two of them.

“Khaleesi …” Jhiqui started timidly.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Visenya shouted at them, looking half-mad. “Get out! Stand right outside my door until I call you by your _true_ names! Now!”

The two Dothraki girls scampered to their feet and past Daeron to get outside the tent.

Daeron looked to Visenya in visible shock. He had always known her to be callous and demanding at times but yet there had always been a grace to her, dark as it were. The grace was gone; all that remained was rage, indignity and perhaps insanity. He wondered if he had done this to her and felt even more shame.

Visenya looked to him and saw the look on his face, shaking her head. “Fucking cunts, the both of them. I’m sure Drogo fucks them both and they come to me leaking his rotten seed. Can you believe that? He slums with filth like that when he has me? I’ll behead them before long. I’ll have no bastards.”

She didn’t seem to show decorum with him. He believed she was trying to throw him off by talking in such a way. He kneeled down to the dirt before her.

“Visenya …Khaleesi … your grace; I humbly lay myself before you. I am deeply sorry about my previous …”

He had her chuckling near the beginning of his apology but by the middle of it, she had burst into laughter and he stopped to look up at her. Her palms were gripping the armrests of her chair as she laid her head back and laughed away.

When she brought her face down to face him, her eyes unnerved him. They were wider than he had ever seen them and she had an unhinged air about her.

“Oh, little Dae’, I can never … quite …” she paused and hissed. “… _pin_ you down! Just when I believe you’ve manned up, you revert back to _this_ …”

Swayed, he stood to his feet. “I don’t understand …”

She reached up to her collar and pulled her robe down to reveal purplish bruising on her throat and left collarbone area. She angled these parts to emphasize this to him. He saw this and averted his eyes.

“Do you see what you did to me?”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

“Honestly, it’s the first time I’ve had any respect for you.”

She shifted in her chair and he wagered a peek back at her. It was then that he caught a glimpse of more bruising going down to her chest. He advanced on her quickly and peeled away her robe, exposing her chest. While he initially stunned himself that he so brazenly exposed her full breasts to him, he immediately recognized that she had obscene red and purple bruising and nearly fresh whip welts all over her chest, shoulders and likely her back as well.

For a while, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. He didn’t understand how she wasn’t crying in pain; he found it inconceivable. Looking at her left him numb. He felt faint and fell to his knees again.

She left herself exposed for a few moments longer, before slowly pulling the robes back tightly around herself.

“What?” she asked with a sneer. “You don’t want me anymore?”  


“Visenya!” he groaned at her sentiment. He stared back up at her, looking intently into her eyes. “How did this happen? Did Khal Drogo do this to you?”

“What does it matter to you? You almost killed me. Remember?”

“Visenya, I’m sorry! I will regret that moment to my dying breath! You are my only blood and I love you more than anything in this world!”

Visenya stopped at his sudden apology and outburst. He saw her open and close her mouth, struggling to say something in response.

“Yes … well, you’ve always been a burden to me but I suppose I can abide your presence for a while longer.”

He supposed that, that would likely be the most positive feelings she would be expressing towards him for the time being.

“Yes, to answer your question” she stood up from the chair slowly, clearly in pain. He stood up to help her but she vehemently waved him off. “Drogo has been less than gentle.” She walked away from him towards the stone dragon eggs, which were almost deified in their altar and surrounded by lit candles at all times. “But I am the dragon.” He followed her, looking over her shoulder; his gaze transfixed by the eggs. “The last dragon. I will bear this as well. I will show that I am above his petty misogyny and will take my army across the narrow sea to ascend my throne.”

“What if he never intends to take you across the narrow sea? If I’m not mistaken, a khalasar has never crossed it.”

She turned sideways to glance at him. “I will find a way. I always do.”

She moved away from him but he didn’t follow her. Instead, his eyes steadied on the eggs and the candlelit flames that warmed them.

Faintly, he heard his sister call for his maidens to return. “Bitch! Cow! Get back in here! You’re not finished!”

 

Doreah paid a visit to his tent when it was finally erected. Initially she allowed a pretense that she was interested in more conversation but eventually her desires spilled forth.

“Let’s make love” she requested as she skillfully slid her body underneath his with her bare, hairless calves wrapped on the inside of his. Though he was slightly distracted, he found himself in great admiration of her without realizing it beforehand. She was a true master of her craft; she knew when to make him feel desirable and godlike and when to make him lust for her beyond his youthful understanding. She was both submissive and dominant in turn, and all at once.

Though he thought of his sister and her dragon eggs as well as Khal Drogo, he knew Doreah deserved his full attention and more.

She reached up and slid both hands up and around the back of his neck. She massaged both sides of it as she did and ran her hands through his long, wavy hair. She eased him down towards her and brought him in for a kiss. A tingling sensation found his lips as she gradually deepened her kiss, providing him nonverbal instruction by the movements of her neck, tongue and mouth. She alternated in advancing towards and retreating, guiding him in meeting her movement in opposite; a dance of passion and will. He was a bit surprised when her tongue slid between their kisses and massaged his own. He found the action pleasurable and it added a new dimension to their passion. He liked the idea that within their already passionate embrace, there was an inner connection that only they knew; he timidly replicated her tongue movements at first before he grew in confidence at her satisfied moaning. His actions rapidly grew in fervor and their pace grew frantic.

Eventually, she gently separated his face from hers with a gentle push of his lower jaw. Several strands of saliva linked between their open mouths as they parted, slowly falling away towards her.

“My, you are a learned student, my prince” she said breathlessly as he looked up into his eyes, cupping his jaw still.

“I do consider myself an eager pupil” he replied with a smile.

“Well, I have another lesson for you.”

Carefully, the two of them slid out of their small clothes. Doreah then reached down between, gripping Daeron’s hard prick and guided towards her waiting slit.

“No” he whispered. “I want to do it.”

She smiled in surprise, then nodded in acceptance.

 

 

A while into her instruction, she found Daeron to have a habit of resting directly on top of her dropping all of his weight on her as he thrust. It caused undue pressure on her and made it harder to breathe.

“ _Prince_ ” she choked out. She tapped him on the back. “Rise up onto your elbows and knees. You’re crushing me.”

“Sorry”, he replied apologetically, pushing himself up on his elbows and knees as she said.

“I don’t intend to tell you how to treat your lovers but if you wish them to partake in the pleasure with you please be mindful not to crush them. Put most of your weight on your arms and ankles. Use your lower body to guide your hips. You’ll get a feel for it.”

He nodded.

She stroked his back. “Now, let’s continue.”

Using what he just learned, he allowed himself to be guided into a deep thrust that the rubbed the roof of her vagina as well as her clitoral hood.

“Oh, _yesss_!” She moaned out legitimately, meeting his hips with movements and gripping of her own. “That’s it.”

Eventually, they found a rhythm and their moans together formed a volatile duet. At first, Daeron was sure that she was putting on a show for his benefit; what with her seemingly excessive moaning and inability to sit still. Eventually, those thoughts as well as most others slipped away as his climax approached. Although his body seemed to pitch forward at an increasing rate, desperate to find release; a rising heat on his scalp drew his eyes upwards.

Just beyond his bedding were Visenya’s three eggs in their resting place and encircled by their altar light. He became entranced by the image and his body slowed to a lazy lull.

Something Visenya once said came to mind. _We are dragons and dragon masters. It’s in our blood. Dragons are the gods’ favorite creation. That is why we will rule. What is man compared to that?_

The collective flame flared up around the eggs, singeing his vision yet he refused to look away. Indeed he was reinvigorated by the flame and the presence of true dragons; his body moving of its own accord. His hips drove almost violently into Doreah, causing her to gasp genuinely.

She clutched him desperately and yelled out in truth for she gradually felt more filled compared to previously; he seemed to grow girthier and longer inside her. His grunts were deeper, closer to the man he might become; he felt like was somebody else. Daeron continued using her, not noticing when she yelled his name and climaxed beneath him; she shouted and stretched out as the pitch of her voice broke and became a shrill screech. Though she was overtaken by the intense sensations pulsating throughout her body, she was still thrown continuously from Daeron’s quickening motions.

The center scarlet-black egg suddenly cracked with orange embers spilling forth and rising from within. This image drove him over the edge and caused him to have his own most intense finish. He groaned in great strain as the veins protruded on his neck and forehead. Eventually, he peered back up and saw the eggs and fire were gone. Exhausted, he pulled himself out and fell on his back beside her.  

They both lie still for a while, just readjusting and catching their breaths. Doreah looked over at Daeron and watched him. She reached over and caressed the side of his sweat-slicked face with the back of her hand; she lifted some wild strands of his hair from his over his face to behind his ear. He continued looking up at the roof of his tent as his vision slowly cleared.

“Sex looks good on you, prince” she said slyly.

He didn’t respond.

“You’re beautiful” she went on, stroking his cheek. “Especially now.”

“Beautiful?” he questioned as he continued to stare at the roof. “I’m a boy. Shouldn’t it be handsome?”

“No, you’re beyond that.” She turned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Fairer than most girls even. I’d call you beautiful.”

She rolled back over on her back away from him and he finally looked over at her. She reached underneath the covers and rubbed herself; she moaned and bit her lip.

“Mmmm. I can feel your stuff inside me still. You warm me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

She turned her head to him again and the two locked eyes. “I don’t mind. You do what you just did to me again and I might have a new favorite lover. What happened to you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

She smiled. “Well, you’re but a boy. I can only imagine what you’ll be like as a man.”

“Doreah?”

“Hmm?”  
“What do you know about dragons?”

She looked at him curiously. “Dragons?”

He nodded. “The Valyrian Freehold held reign in this area, didn’t it? This was a land of dragons.”

“They have been gone from these lands for so long that some believe they never existed. I never met anybody who’s seen one or had an honest account of one. I … have heard a Qarth trader tell me a folktale once … but it’s stupid.”

“No, tell me.” He touched her arm.

She chuckled. “You’ll laugh at me.”

He looked at her seriously. “I promise … I won’t.”

Her smile faded somewhat but remained faintly at the edges of her mouth. “The tale says that the moon is actually an egg and that once there were actually two moons in the sky. One of the moons wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. From the moon poured hundreds of thousands of dragons. They drank the sun’s fire.”

He grew silent in thought but she noticed he said nothing.

“See?” she said. “I told you it was stupid.”

He thought of the scarlet egg cracking and leaking embers.

“No” he said. “I like it. I just wish I could see a dragon in truth.”

 

“My brother may actually be a dragon after all” Visenya said to Jorah inside her tent. She was again being rubbed in oils and medicine pastes by her handmaidens over much of her body. It was unpleasant but it was better than the pain she endured regularly due to her recent encounters with the khal. Jorah sat in a chair across from her, listening to her rant and carrying out whatever orders she may have.

“He proved as much to me yesterday” she went on. She hissed in pain as Irri rubbed a tender spot on her thigh. The two locked eyes for a moment before Irri quickly looked away and went to another spot, hoping not to be struck down. “…And despite your best efforts” Visenya continued, “Daeron was completely apologetic and has yet to really turn against me.”

“I assure you, khaleesi” Jorah offered, “the last thing I wish to happen is to come between you and the prince. I only care for the safety of the both of you and wish to carry out your will to the best of my ability.”

Visenya scoffed. “Hmm. Well, you’re from Westeros and that already makes me wonder whether I can trust you.”

“As I’ve said before, khaleesi …”

“I know, I know. Eddard Stark wants your head. Fine. I hear that you’ve gotten familiar with my brother. Your slave as well.”

“Black Bear.”

“Yes. Sword skills and whatnot. To be fair, I think something like that improves him somewhat. He was a bit too … _effeminate_ for my taste before. But if I find out you are poisoning my only blood against me … well, I will send your head to Winterfell as fast as the fastest ship in Essos can sail. Am I understood?”

Jorah hesitated before smiling slightly and nodding her head. “Clearly, khaleesi.”

“So you may continue with your playfighting. I’m sure little Dae’ will ultimately fail at being a warrior like everything else but I will allow him to try.”

Jorah wasn’t aware she had ever asked Visenya’s permission but nonetheless she verbally acquiesced. “Thank you, khaleesi.”

“Ahhh … and how are your wounds, khaleesi?” Jorah inquired. “I’ve brought the poultices that I believe are required for the wounds I know but if you need something stronger or have any fresh injuries, be sure to tell me. I’m concerned for your safety.”

“Oh, are you now?”

Jorah nodded assuredly. “I am.”

“Well, you needn’t worry so much” she proclaimed. “I am a dragon. The last dragon in fact – what? What are you doing?”

She looked down at Jhiqui, whom had taken to massaging and kneading her left breast. Visenya gave her a distressed look but was already starting to feel the dragon wake in her.

“When was your last moonblood, khaleesi?” Jhiqui asked timidly.

Jorah pitched forward in her chair, her attention drawn ever more to Visenya’s talk with her handmaidens.

“I’m late this month” Visenya spat. “So what? I’m stressed from your incompetence!”

“Your breasts are sore, yes?” questioned Jhiqui.

Visenya blinked. “I know you’re a savage slut but I didn’t realize you were this simple. Did you forget the reason you’re rubbing ointments, medicines and gods damn poultices all over my body?!”

Jhiqui flinched away and spat it out quickly. “You’re with child, khaleesi!”

Visenya looked at Jorah with shocked look on her face before looking alternatively between her handmaidens.

“Is this true?” she asked them. She turned to Jhiqui; she reached down and snatched a handful of the girl’s hair, yanking her towards her. “Answer me, cow!”

“Yes, khaleesi!” Jhiqui wailed in distress.

Jorah took a bit of pity on the poor girl. “If I may, khaleesi. You have been lying with the khal for weeks and your breasts do look like they could fill a few cups more than they could before. Your body is preparing for _something_.”

Visenya stopped in her tracks and looked to Irri, whom nodded eagerly. Slowly, she released Jhiqui from her grasp. She brought her hand to her face and began to laugh haughtily as she leaned back in her chair. As her laugh settled, she looked back upon Jorah.

“Do you see?” she said. “The Targaryens will never die. Fuck the Usurper and his Lannister whore! The dragon rises again.”

Then Jorah watched as Visenya moved her hands down to her lower abdomen and rub it lovingly.

“Please, gods” Visenya whispered, “give me a son and a true Targaryen prince.”

Jorah gave a long sigh.

 

Daeron walked outside his tent, intending to wash himself in the lake of the sweet yet smelly love sweat from his latest tryst with Doreah. It was en route to this that he happened upon Jorah retrieving her horse from the horse master. He saw that the steed was strapped with saddlebags as if prepared to travel and possibly lodging somewhere.

“Jorah?” he called out as he approached.

Jorah gave a slight pause but continued tying a saddlebag near the steed’s mid-section as the horse master set the harness on the head.

She gave only a moment’s look at him as she continued. “Your grace.”

“Where are you going?”

The horse master gave her a nod indicating that he was finished and she quickly tossed a silver coin to him to send him on his way. She then braced herself and pulled herself up onto her mount. “Your sister is with babe.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sister is in the early stages of pregnancy.”

He swallowed at that. He wanted to be happy. His sister would have a baby. A new Targaryen. They wouldn’t be alone anymore. Yet, he remembered his sister’s savaged body. The circumstances just seemed wrong and she could lose the child if the beatings continued if she didn’t already.

Daeron seemed distracted and deep in thought to Jorah. She called out to him. “Your grace? Are you alright?”

He snapped back to it. “Yes. Well, why do you leave? My sister needs us more than ever.”

“I assure you, your grace, I only intend to travel to Qohor. I’ll buy medicines to aid in the birth as well as nutrients the child needs. I’ll only be gone a fortnight. I’ll be returned before dawn’s break.”

He nodded and looked off towards the forest for a moment. He didn’t know much about the needs of an unborn child but from what he had seen of Visenya, Jorah’s concerns seemed legitimate.

“Of course. Please, get my sister everything she needs. Where’s Black Bear?”

“I will leave him with you. You can continue your training if you like and he can be here for protection.”

He looked up at her with concern. “What about you? Will you really be alright on your own?”

She reached down towards her left ankle and displayed a small hilt strapped to her ankle under her dress. She pulled the handle to reveal the partial blade of a steel dagger. Daeron was surprised; he had never seen Jorah with a weapon. He wondered if she was capable.

“Don’t worry, your grace” she assured him. “I can handle myself. I was alone for a long time.”

“Well, that settles it, I guess. Be safe on your journey, Jorah. Please return to us.”

“Of course, your grace.” Jorah then started her stallion’s walk forward and Daeron watched as she made her way through the Dothraki camp in the direction of Qohor.

 

When Black Bear came to find Daeron, he found him at the lake again. Daeron tread in the middle of its waters and seemed to laze about, deep in mental reflection. He allowed himself to sink beneath the surface. Knowing Daeron’s stargazing nature, Black Bear was unconcerned and simply smiled.

 

It was nearing sunset and the skies promised fire when Drogo finally returned to the tent he shared with Visenya. Visenya stood up at the sight of him and watched cautiously as he ignored her and rummaged through a nearby chest for something. She was beginning to see less and less of him as time went on.

She began to speak to him in her practiced Dothraki. “<It’s been too long, husband of mine. We should talk.>”

He ignored her.

“<I wonder what keeps you from me. Did you find some whores? Is it Doreah you fuck or one of those shit-stained girls? Tell me, why do they get the pleasure while all I’m left with is pain?>”

He finally dug out a ruby-encrusted chalice.

Her eyes fell on it for a second and her frustration boiled over. She began talking in Common Tongue. “Well, you lot do seem to love the horse so much! So maybe I shouldn’t be worried about women stealing my husband’s seed but his steed! So maybe the question I should be asking is how many horses have you fucked today? Hmm? I want my gods’ damn army, you horse fucker! Enough of this wandering around! You will give me the throne you promised, you shit-stained fuck!”

Drogo had begun to walk towards the front of their tent to leave but stopped as she finished her curses at him. He half-turned to her, looking right at her. She gave a low gasp, fearing that he understood her. She stepped back and grasped for the nightstand behind her. He gave a smirk and turned again to leave.

“<I’m with child!”> she blurted this, stopping him in his tracks. “< _Your_ child, khal. >

He actually turned towards her at that. She raised her chin at him defiantly.

“<We will turn around and sail across the narrow sea or I swear to _every_ god that I will cut it out. >”

He gave a low scoff and started towards her. She backed away slightly but it didn’t save her. With only a little strength, he roundly smacked her across the face. She was sent sprawling onto their raised bedding.

He growled. “<It seems you still have not learned your place.>”

Her cheek was reddened and enflamed with pain but she didn’t care. She was incensed and pushed herself off of the bedding to meet him. Though she wasn’t a short woman and stood over five and a half feet tall, he still towered over her. A truly fearsome man; but she was a she-dragon after all, knowing that a child was growing inside of her provided her strength.

“No more!” she spat up at him. She was so distressed that she was speaking in Common Tongue. “I am a dragon! You will treat me with the respect I’m due!”

Drogo responded with a pulled straight punch to her mouth that rocked her head sharply backwards. After this happened, she collapsed to her knees in front of him and placed her hands on the ground to brace herself. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of her silver-golden hair; he allowed her to push herself to her feet. Still, he held her hair up and backwards and forced her to look up at him. She took the opportunity to spit a wad of blood and saliva in his face. She laughed, proudly displaying her blood-covered teeth.

He calmly reached up with his other hand and wiped his face.

 

Far too much later after Black Bear was satisfied with the prince’s safety and had left him, Daeron returned to the central site, still slightly damp. As he made his way towards his own resting tent, he noticed a circle of the khal’s warriors lazily drinking in front of the khal’s tent entrance. He heard hard slapping sounds as well as the wailing of a woman from inside. He was slow to the realization as he was distracted in thought but it dawned on him that the wails could be his sister. They were pained not pleasured.

He broke into a sprint and bypassed the khal’s warriors to enter the tent. To his horror, Drogo was completely nude, repeatedly thrusting into his sister from behind as he had her skirt hiked halfway up her back; the worst part was the khal held a short horse whip in his right hand and continually lashed his sister in the back as he fucked her. He was so frantic in his movements that the bells in his hair practically never stopped ringing. She screamed out repeatedly as Daeron had heard from outside. They were partially facing away from him so they didn’t notice him but he could see the fresh open wounds on her back and the torn fabric of the dress around it. When Visenya wasn’t screaming, she was crying which in turn brought tears to his eyes; that in conjunction with the ignited spiked torches around the tent blurred his vision.

Daeron looked around for any weapon and his eyes settled on several discarded daggers on the ground; daggers that Drogo must’ve had on before he undressed. He grabbed a curved dagger and started for Drogo, intending to leap on the bedding and stab him in the back. Yet, Drogo was a trained warrior who had killed his first man before the age of ten. He sensed Daeron’s presence even outside of Visenya. As Daeron closed the distance, Drogo threw his right foot backwards with great force in a hind kick that was reminiscent of a disturbed horse. Daeron was catapulted backwards off of the bedding and rolled onto the ground near the entrance again as Drogo’s bloodriders entered the room. Cohollo, Qotho and Haggo reached down and scrambled to beat Daeron and lift him to his feet.

Drogo pulled away from Visenya and dropped the horsewhip to turn back towards the fray. Visenya looked back and saw this.

“Don’t hurt him!” she pleaded Drogo, sitting up on her knees and reaching for him until Drogo turned and smacked her across the face with a grunt, knocking her back down.

Qotho and Haggo dragged Daeron to his feet; Haggo held his left arm at length while Qotho took his right arm and slammed his arm into it, snapping the boy’s arm near the elbow. Daeron screamed out in excruciating pain and dropped the dagger. Cohollo kneeled down to the boy’s front, driving his right elbow into Daeron’s sternum hard and repeatedly, threatening to break that as well. The bloodrider then reached up and grasped Daeron by the face; his right thumb was moving into a position to gouge out the boy’s left eye.

“Aaaaah!” shouted Daeron as he struggled in their grasp and against Cohollo’s attempts to blind him.

“No!” shouted Drogo in common tongue as he stepped down from the bedding towards them. “<The princess keeps her eyes today.>”

Cohollo stepped aside as Drogo came closer; his wet, dark prick bounced prominently the air as he approached. For a long couple of seconds, Drogo stood pointedly before Daeron and uncomfortably close. Daeron was breathing raggedly and wincing from his newly broken arm. He looked down at Drogo’s feet to avoid the uncomfortableness of looking at Drogo’s loins. Eventually, Drogo mercifully crouched down before the prince so that they were nearly eye to eye.

He began to speak in broken common tongue. “You … want crown … _boy_? You … want rule?”

When Daeron continued looking away and didn’t answer immediately, he grabbed Daeron by his hair and yanked his head painfully upward to look at him. “Answer!”

“No!” Daeron shouted through tears. “I don’t want it! Please leave my sister alone! Just leave her be!” Drogo released him and threw his head down in disgust. He stepped and away from him to spit on the ground.

“Weak!” Drogo shouted in common tongue. “Your sister … she _strong_. Maybe she show you how. Hmm?”

Drogo gestured towards Visenya to Cohollo. “<Take her, blood of my blood. Have your way.>”

Cohollo smirked as he and Drogo lovingly touched heads. Cohollo moved past Drogo, removing his weapons and horse skin pants.

Visenya cowered away from him on the bedding. “No! No, damn you! Nooo!”

Daeron struggled against Qotho and Haggo to stand. “Stop it! Visenyaaaa!” Qotho put the smallest amount of pressure on his shattered arm. “Aaaaagh!” Daeron shouted and grimaced in misery as he dropped back to his knees. “Don’t do this, _please_! Just let her go!”

Qotho leaned in to the side of Daeron’s face, causing him to grimace as he spoke in Dothraki. He didn’t know any of the common tongue so he just settled for a low chuckle to unsettle him.

Visenya attempted to crawl away from Cohollo but the man was much too strong and quick. He caught her by the ankles and dragged her back towards into him. After a short struggle, he roughly entered her from behind and caused her to scream out. She strained away from him but he pushed her down into the bedding to keep her still and muffle her cries.

Daeron’s heart sank at the sight and he collapsed in the Dothrakis’ grasp. Drogo picked up the dagger and put its blade within a few hairs of his right eye and raised it slowly, training Daeron to raise his head and watch Cohollo and Visenya.

“ _Watch_ ” Drogo reminded him.

Tears spilled down Daeron’s cheeks as he watched Cohollo’s muscles bounce and strain as the sharp thrusts of his hips repeatedly caused Visenya to lurch forward. She had a mouthful of the bedsheets in her teeth in an attempt to keep from shouting out but Daeron could still hear her muffled crying and screams into them.

Cohollo drove himself forward violently and gave several short, frantic jabs into Visenya before going still again. He held her hips tightly in place and Daeron realized he was spilling his seed into her.

Much worse than anything else, he looked forward and to his right where Drogo had repositioned himself. He realized the khal had taken to stroking his own prick. Daeron’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat.

Drogo stared right into his eyes and wasn’t even facing Visenya’s misery but was apparently more interested in Daeron. “Watch” he reminded Daeron.

When Cohollo left her, he returned to Daeron and took Haggo’s place in restraining him. Haggo went to the bedding, removing his leather and weapons much like Cohollo had done. In moments, he began riding her much the same as well, only more urgent. As Daeron watched, he realized each thrust felt like Drogo was stabbing him in the chest; still the damned khal stroked his prick at him, reveling in his pain. What a grave mistake his prideful sister had made in her bid for power and they were both paying for it.

At one point, Daeron attempted to think of other things. Youthful, happier times of his sister carrying him on her back through the markets of Lys; the two of them in bed reading old Valyrian tales; swimming the lake and even a recent memory of himself in bed with Doreah. Drogo must’ve seen it in his eyes, his attempt to mentally escape. He said something to Qotho, who in turn yanked his damaged limb and brought him back to the present.

In time, Haggo was finished with Visenya as well and rose from her, her fluids and blood smeared on his prick. She no longer responded to anything; she lay limp with her glazed over eyes staring off into space as she absentmindedly drawing circles with her fingers in the bedding sheets.

 _Yes, sister_. He thought. _Think of anything else_.

With a tap on his broken arm, Daeron’s attention was drawn to Qotho beside him. Qotho looked at him directly in the face and flashed the widest smile he imagined Qotho could manage; it was a crooked, rotten-toothed smile that made Daeron realize that he hated both Drogo and Qotho equally. The other two were dogs but the khal and this thing were spiteful daemons.

When Haggo came and secured Daeron’s broken arm, Qotho rose and almost too gleefully began to remove his leather trousers and weapons. He moved to Visenya and placed a palm on her mid-back to hold her in place; there was no reason to do so at that moment but there would be shortly. He smugly looked back to Daeron before lining himself up and pushing at Visenya. She shot up, wide-eyed and attempted to get away but Qotho quickly held her down against her struggles. Before long, he shot up into her. She shot up then and Daeron would never forget the look on her face. Not a grimace, really but a strained blank face with protruding veins and all; dead eyes that matched everything else dying at once. She slowly crept back to the bedding and gave low, pained grunts as Qotho continued to use her. She looked so defeated, a sight that Daeron had never seen before.

Something may have died inside Daeron as well. His vision continuously blackened and he felt sick and weak. He didn’t even feel the sharp, pain shooting in his arm anymore. He noticed Drogo give a breathy groan as several spurts of seed shot out and landed on the ground not far from him. The Dothraki horselord never looked from Daeron even as he was spent. The prince went limp in their grasp and he slowly slid to the ground facefirst as they finally released him. Too weak to do much, he attempt to look back up but his sense of direction was off because everything was black. Terrible sounds bore into his mind; the whimpers of his sister, the choked grunts of Qotho, slapping sounds and _bells_. He had heard it continually throughout the entire affair; Drogo, Haggo and Qotho all wore them throughout their long braids and Cohollo wore several in his long, parted moustache and beard for he was bald atop his head. The bells were a haunting detail that he may never forget. Still, he was effectively blind and a few moments later his mind went dark as well; the only peace he may have for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. The King Walks/Lady Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drogo seeks to humiliate Daeron further; Jeyne thinks up a solution that can help her and Jeyne Poole both at the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while and this chapter is long. Over 27,000 words long. It could've been longer too but that would've been too much imo. The reason why this one is so long is that something specific had to happen in this chapter and no bout of writer's block was gonna stop me from getting it into this chapter. This one was a struggle. I guess Daeron gets some inspiration from that, idk. 
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna up the rating to Explicit. I'm still unclear what exactly separates Mature from Explicit (maybe somebody can PM me about that one) but this work is pretty graphic already. I mean I've already depicted some pretty messed up stuff including sexual violence. Also, Daeron is only 13! That's underage sex! Anyway, enjoy.

** Daeron **

****

****

That event brought forth memories he wished he didn’t have. Namely, something that happened when he was only eight years old. The pair of siblings had long been banished from the House with the Red Door but were settled in Lys for a time; or were as settled as two would-be exile children could be. It had been hours on since young Daeron had seen his sister. The two were running out of possessions and coin to barter. She had told him that she would fetch him food and drink but that seemed ages ago. He was both hungry and worried for her. It was just the two of them and if anything happened to her, he would be all alone and the thought of that frightened him more than anything.

            He risked much in searching all of the local shops they frequented. In those times, it wasn’t uncommon for young children to be snatched out of the streets only to be found later butchered and mutilated. Add to that, he was Valyrian whom were often discriminated against and forcibly whored out for their exotic looks. On top of all of that, he was a Targaryen and his sister never let him forget what that meant.

            He couldn’t find her anywhere and that dispirited him. He walked back to his favorite sweet market. Although Visenya forbade him from ever going there, he had befriended the baker somewhat and the man often gave him free sweets.

            Daeron approached him, clearly saddened.

            The burly, bearded man picked up on this immediately. “What ails you, young Daeron?”

            “My sister … I can’t find her …”

            “Awww, I’m sorry to hear that, me boy. No worries, though. I’m sure she’ll turn up. She’s a survivor that one. Why don’t I run and fetch ya some of me crumpets? A new recipe I’ve been working on. I’m sure it’ll cheer ya right up.”

            Daeron doubted it would but he was never one to turn down free sweets so he nodded his head. “Thank you.”

            “Steady now. I’ll be right back. Be sure to watch my table now. Wouldn’t want thieves eating for free. Heh.”

            He stepped away into a tiny room and his makeshift bakery while Daeron stepped behind his display of sweet breads and fruit cakes. He watched as three young men who looked to be around Visenya’s age stepped towards the bread table. He opened his mouth to greet them, only to fall silent as they walked right on by him to the alleyway behind him. In fact, a few others crept down the very same alley as well. His curiosity was piqued; he looked over to see that his baker friend was still away. He would only be gone for a few moments, he reasoned and the baker was receiving no prospective buyers anyway. So, he stepped away from the table and ventured down the alley.

            There was a small crowd of men; some young and some older, all transfixed by something. He heard some odd sounds from the direction they were facing. Due to his small size and agility at the time, he was able to easily weave in and out of the crowd without bothering them. They were watching a young girl with the silver-golden hair of a Valyrian; she was seated on her knees on the stone ground with her head in the lap of an older, sweaty, decidedly ugly man. Daeron didn’t completely understand what was happening. The man leaned backwards into the alley wall, rubbing his protruding, furry belly with one hand and guiding the girl’s head on his genitals with the other.

            _Adults think this is fun?_ Daeron wondered, looking around. Apparently so because to his horror, some of the men had taken to stroking themselves in their pants and some even wholly removed their cocks to stroke out in the open. The only time he had ever done so was to relieve himself of water. Another non-attractive man to the girl’s left flank approached and yanked the girl from man’s attention and forced her towards his own exposed cock. It poked her once in the cheek before finding its place in her throat, gagging her.

            Daeron’s eyes widened when she turned her head and he saw that it was Visenya. Although he didn’t completely understand what was happening, he knew it was perverse. All of the glaring, laughing men were abusing his sister and she seemed to willingly take part in it. _Why is she doing this?_

            He backed away, tears forming in his eyes.

            “Your sister really loves you, boy. She earns the lion’s share of food right here and often. I’m sure you’ll eat well tonight.”

            Daeron whipped around to the familiar voice behind him. The baker was standing right there and had taken to stroking himself as well; a man he had thought kind and generous. Thinking back later, Daeron realized that he had likely orchestrated the situation. Daeron gasped.

            “Valyrians are highly valuable, especially delicious young boys. You can earn twice as much as her if you participated as well.”

            Daeron stood frozen for a moment in shock. He recovered quickly and pushed past him before dashing from the alley with tears in his eyes. He wouldn’t have cared if Visenya had noticed him or not, though she thankfully didn’t.

 

            The pain was a dull echo at first compared to the agony he felt before though it all returned quickly as an unwelcome reminder. He stirred on the ground and raised his face; his good hand dragged in the dirt, flicking across a small patch of grass. The light flickering from the tent’s torch stands steadily grew prominent in his returning vision.

            “Ah, my dragonknight rises” Visenya murmured out to him. “My hero …”

            He looked up and saw that they were alone. She was on her side, turned away from him as she dragged herself to the head of her bedding, grunting with every move of her muscles; she occasionally looked back over her shoulder at him. There was dried blood in her lower regions, stained into her dress; a sight that made him wince. Drogo’s bloodriders had left him exactly where he passed out; how much time had passed? It was hard to say.

            “Visenya …”

            “Don’t look at me!” He ashamedly looked down into the dirt before him upon her request. “I don’t need your judgement.”

            “I would never …”

            “Nor your pity.”

            He tried to push himself to his knees but his limbs had numbed. He stumbled and sobbed as he agitated his broken arm.

            She sighed. “Look at us. We’ve been suffering our entire lives, haven’t we? We’ve really lived up to the Targaryen name. I wonder what the Usurper would say if he saw us now? Would he laugh himself to death? I suppose _that_ would be worth it.”

            Daeron made a fist with his good hand and clenched his eyes shut, trying to bear with some of the pain. “Visenya … I swear I will kill him.”

            “Hmm. You mean Drogo?” She scoffed, moving her head to the sound of his voice. “Don’t be daft. He would slaughter you … easily. No, it’s up to me. It’s always been up to me. I will make him love me and he will crush my enemies and bring me the Usurper’s head.”

            “No, he won’t!” Daeron grunted out, looking back up at her. “He won’t take you across the narrow sea! Don’t you see?! You’re just another possession to him!”

            “H-how dare you?! You know nothing!”

            “Let’s run away from here. Tonight, while we still have the chance.”  
           

“Coward! You can run away if you like but I will not give up!”

            “Visenya! Listen to me!”  
           

“No!” She said, sinking to the bed and covering her ears as if she were the younger sibling, throwing a tantrum. “I will not hear it!”

            “I love you!” he called out to her.

            She must have heard him because she slowly dropped her hands and grunted as she rolled over to face him. Her cosmetics streamed down her face, muddled in tears, blood and sweat. “Love? What a useless, overused term. Love is about as real as hope and magic. How could you still believe in love after everything you’ve seen, including tonight?”

            He painfully pushed himself up to his knees and ventured a look into her eyes at last. “I don’t care what happens to me; if I could take all of your suffering and pain and take it upon myself, I would in an instant! Without a second thought! That’s just how I feel!”

            She paused at his words and seemed to be affected. However, she gathered herself. “You fucking liar! Despite all my efforts, you turned out to be another disgusting man! Drogo?! The Usurper?! You came closer to killing me than either of them! You’re just more of the same.”

            Ashamed, he wanted to offer an apology but fell at a loss of words. He slumped down and looked away. She settled back down to the bedding and pulled her limbs into her body. She rubbed the fabric of her covers as a single tear crept down her face and hit the sheets. “I’ve been subjugated by you bastards all my life. When will it end?”

 

 

 

            “Drink this” Jorah urged him later in his tent. She, Black Bear and Rakharo were crouched over him, preparing to set and splint his arm. Doreah watched from the corner of the room with her chin on her knees, quietly concerned. Daeron tilted his head back and accepted a gulp of the hard milk from Jorah’s horn.

            He gulped it down and winced at its sharp but pleasantly frothy taste.

             “More” she demanded as she tilted the horn higher, forcing more of the drink down. He coughed after attempting to keep up with her demands for a few gulps and some poured down his cheeks as well as his chin. To his surprise, his mind and some of the pain were numbed already; he felt himself gradually calm.

            “Bite on this” she ordered, handing him a piece of thick, cut rope. He placed it in his mouth and bit down but she didn’t seem satisfied. She took it away and tapped on his lower jaw, gesturing him to open his mouth. She placed it deep into his jawline, obstructing his tongue and pushed his lower jaw upwards, causing him to bite down again. “Don’t …let … go.”

            He nodded as Black Bear and Rakharo got closer. “Hold him down” she ordered Rakharo. She then looked back to Daeron and stroked a lock of hair on his forehead. “I’m afraid that this will hurt a lot but it will not last forever. Please try to bear with it, your grace. Are you a dragon?”

            He hesitated, looking down at Rakharo and Black Bear nervously before nodding.

            “Will you be strong for us?” she asked.

            He nodded eagerly.

            “Remember to breathe” she added.

            He had truly forgot and was taking large gasps of breaths to make up the difference. Jorah then set her upper body weight over Daeron’s shoulders before giving Black Bear the subtlest of nods. Black Bear then gave a hard, downward twist to Daeron’s arm, which was accompanied by the sickening crunching of bone scraping bone within tendon and muscle. Daeron screamed through the rope caught in his teeth, muffled as it were. His chest heaved upwards as Jorah allowed this release of pain, knowing that he ultimately needed it. Doreah buried her head in her knees and covered her ears, wishing not to think of Daeron in such misery.

 

** Jeyne **

****

 

            Jeyne rose, drawing the attention of Ghost, whom had curled up on a small carpet next to her human’s bed. Ghost seemed hesitant to display out and out excitement for Jeyne’s awakening because those were characteristics of a bitch and she was a growing direwolf. Jeyne looked over to Ghost and smiled. She looked over to the servant’s quarters and saw that the door was closed.

She opened the drapes before the balcony doors, allowing the light inside. It was bright already; cold but bright. She wrapped her arms tight across her chest, keeping her body heat intact. Even with the wear of her slippers, it did little to help. She heard various shouting in the courtyard below as certain workers went about their early morning duties such as dumping troughs, gathering water from the well and bringing in hunts for the day’s feasts. The smith was at work in his shack as she heard scraping metal in the distance as well. That reminded her of the previous day’s unsavory events and made her think of the other Jeyne. She decided to return inside to check on her.

She went to her door and knocked several times. After a while of no answer, she slowly turned the knob and opened it.

Jeyne was curled up on the floor in darkness with her head pointed towards the door. She shifted in her covers and protected her eyes from the light. Jeyne Snow had heard faint sniffling as she opened the door which halted her intrusion somewhat.

“I don’t feel well” groaned Jeyne Poole. “Can you please close the door?”

Snow sighed and complied, leaving her alone for the time being.

She sent Chrissen to grab her a bucket of water, which she knew would displease him. She then used the privy to urinate.

Eventually, upon sitting at her desk she heard a knock at her door. She expected it to be Chrissen with her water.

“You may enter” she called out. Indeed it was. She looked back and saw that he held the bucket in one hand by its handle. He seemed less than pleased. She pointed to the floor next to her. “You may place it here.”

He slowly walked over and did so, never taking his eyes from her. She didn’t falter, keeping her eyes on him as well. She thanked him when he set it down and he turned with a grunt, returning to the hallway.

In the hallway, Chrissen groaned and turned to Venyon. “She’s a bit mouthy for a bastard. You think Lord Stark would mind too much if we brought her back missing teeth?” Venyon lightly chuckled at that.

Inside her room, Jeyne looked at her water. “I hate this part.”

She grabbed one of the unused chamber pots and unpacked her hygiene essentials. Using a small cup, she poured a bit of the water on a short bristled brush and dipped it into a pouch of her powdered charcoal. She sighed and began to brush her teeth with it. No matter how hard she tried when brushing, she could never keep the charcoal from contacting her tongue and gumline. The harsh, inedible blandness made her gag every time. Still, it was mandatory; hygiene was instilled in her from youth as a highborn, albeit bastard lady.

The servant’s door opened in the midst of her brushing and Jeyne Poole stepped forth.

“Ah, Jeyne!” Jeyne Snow called out to her with blackened teeth and brush in hand. “I have water prepared! Care to brush your teeth?”

Poole was taken aback at Snow’s declaration as well as her open, black-mouthed smile. She didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Sansa would have given her passive aggressive grief if she denied; she didn’t know her half-sister well enough to think she would act differently.

“Yes … but first I have to …” Jeyne paused, coughing a bit to get the words out, “utilize a _… privy_. I’ll just go find one.”

“Nonsense” Snow said just before going back to brushing. “You’ll use that one.”

“Excuse me?” Jeyne turned to her wide-eyed. “The same as you?”

“Of course” Snow went on, taking a cupful of water and swishing it around her mouth. After a few moments, she spit it into her chamber pot. Poole grimaced at the sight. Snow was definitely not as ladylike as her Sansa. Nevertheless, Jeyne groaned at the taste and stuck out her tongue.

“We can’t have you running around to all the rooms in the king’s tower using every privy and such.” She unrolled a sack of minty paste before spooning a miniscule drop of it on her tongue. She took another mouthful of water and repeated the process of cleaning her mouth out like she did with the charcoal water; she spit that into the pot as well. Poole looked down at the pot, knowing that she would be cleaning it later. Jeyne went on, “We’d have to ask for another key and we’d just look foolish in the process. No, we’ll just both use it.”

Jeyne Poole didn’t like that very much. They already shared rooms, a bath, names and then a privy. What else would they share?

“Remember when we’d have to brush in front of the septa and she’d make us open our mouths and stick tongues out after we were done?” Jeyne demonstrated and made an ‘aah’ sound as she stuck out her own tongue. She gave a pleasant smile afterwards. “Wasn’t that so annoying?”

“Well, umm” Jeyne Poole gestured to the privy door, “if you’ll excuse me …”

“Of course.”

Jeyne Poole hastily opened the privy door and disappeared inside.

Jeyne turned away and looked back at the looking glass on her stand table, shaking her head. “Well, _I_ thought it was funny.”

She then took out a thin roped twine she would use to floss between her teeth and chewed off an adequate length. She slid a portion of it through her paste and began to run it between her teeth.

Her attention was drawn by the flapping of wings nearby. She turned towards the balcony and saw that a large raven had planted itself on the railing, faced away from her. It cawed incessantly and occasionally flittered around. Ghost sat upright when she noticed its appearance. She dropped the twine.

“Where did you come from?” She crept towards it. It was really large; she was sure that it was the largest raven she had ever seen. _Are the ravens just that much bigger at the Wall and beyond_? She was fascinated by the thing. When she got within arm’s length of it, it still hadn’t noticed her presence. What she had seen of birds, they were exceedingly instinctive and wary of danger; she was amazed that it hadn’t flown away from her or notice her in the least. Ghost moved behind Jeyne and pressed her snout forcibly into the back of her ankles. Jeyne gave her a brief look before moving on. She reached out for the raven when she felt a hard tug on the back of her gown. She turned her head back and downwards to see Ghost was tugging on the back of it with her teeth, trying to wrench her back.

Jeyne grew irritated. “Girl! Quit it!”

She turned back to the raven, fearful that it had flown away. It hadn’t flown away but it had turned its head back towards her. Its blue eyes seemed to carry a particular and vaguely familiar shimmer to them. She found herself focusing completely on them, noticing lines of jagged spaces of black within the blue irises, as if they were ravines in glaciers. She could fall inside but sensed no end so indeed feared no such death. She felt a complete calm fall over her, no longer feeling the tug from Ghost behind her. She felt like she should crawl within those spaces and rest eternally. Eventually, her vision blackened and she stumbled forward, reaching out for anything to hold onto. When her vision cleared, she found herself leaning headfirst over the railing to an extent that her feet were off the ground. Her heart immediately lurched in her chest and she yelped as she desperately clung to the balcony railing underneath and let out a short scream. Although she was too occupied to notice, some of men noticed this in the yard below.  She kicked her legs out furiously behind her to get back upright. Ghost rose behind and bore down on her dress from behind, yanking her down towards the balcony floor. With the both of them working together, Jeyne was pulled back downwards to the balcony floor, where she dropped to her knees. She gasped and immediately brought Ghost in close, hugging her tightly around the back and neck.

“Oh, my girl” Jeyne exclaimed within their embrace. “Thank you. Thank you. I love you so much.”

She shakily stood up, using the railing as a balance and looked out for the raven but it was gone. She gasped and inhaled harsh, cold air that felt somewhat rough on her throat. She noticed that her face was wet; she touched it with the back of her palm and realized that she was sweating. _What happened to me_?

She rushed inside the balcony doors, allowing Ghost to re-enter beside her, and shoved them both closed. She stepped away, dazed and somewhat nervous. She kneeled down to her water bucket and began to splash her face, gasping as she had begun to feel light-headed.

Jeyne Poole had heard the commotion and re-entered the room, concerned. “Are you alright?”

Jeyne looked up from the water, running the back of one of her palms across her brow. “I need some air.”

 

           

** Daeron **

 

 

 

           

            Daeron emerged from his tent the following morning in general discomfort but in considerably less pain. Jorah and Black Bear had bound two wooden sticks on the set bone with twine from the tents. Jorah knew she could find a better cast in the markets as well as medicine to numb the pain but Daeron refused to leave his sister to Drogo and Jorah was too concerned to leave Daeron.

            The camp was hastily packed and readied for travel. Daeron moved toward his horse, only to be shouted at in Dothraki. Drogo’s bloodriders approached, brandishing their arakhs before Daeron could even attempt to mount. Daeron clutched his arm and flinched away from them as they approached.

            “ _No_ ” Haggo told him. “You _walk_.”

            Qotho looked down at Daeron’s makeshift cast and scoffed, spitting out some of the bloodfruit he was eating.

            Humiliated and trying his best to ignore it, Daeron stepped away as Haggo grabbed his horse by the reins. For his part, the stallion snorted and raised its head away from them sharply sensing their malice. Daeron turned cautiously and began to walk away.

            Qotho took another bite of the bloodfruit before throwing it at Daeron, winging him in the left shoulder blade. Daeron paused briefly but continued on his way. He could hear the jackals cackling behind him.

            Jorah watched this and approached him, leading her horse. “I’ll remain by your side, your grace.”

            Daeron could barely look her in the eyes but acknowledged her intent with a steady nod as he continued to hold his injured arm. “T-thank you, Jorah.”

 

            So, they carried on like that and the walk was not easy. The khalasar moved in parted columns with the khal and bloodriders riding in front; there were skilled warriors at the rear for security but for the most part, heavy cargo as well as children, elderly and the weak brought up the rear. Despite his best efforts, he continuously fell farther and farther behind, almost to the rear of the khalasar. Despite his arm splint, he was still in general discomfort and minor pain. It was too much movement in his condition and his walk speed was affected. As she promised, Jorah’s horse was just to the left of the boy and she slowed the horse often as well as let quite a few people pass her. She looked down into her lap and saddle, fighting the urge to jump down and put him on the horse with her.

            Finally, Daeron stumbled to one knee between the columns and winced; the throbbing was getting to him. He was sure he could go on but not at that pace and for how long; he truly did not know.

            “Your grace!” shouted Jorah as she brought her horse to heel and climbed down towards him. Black Bear and Rakharo also halted their mounts.

            Jorah rushed to his side and put a comforting arm around him.

            A Dothraki brought his horse to a halt close by in anger, shouting down at Jorah. “<Woman! Do not touch the boy or you will walk alongside him!>”

            She shouted back. “<This is the blood of the khaleesi! How dare you treat him this way!>”

            “<Khal Drogo commands it!>”

            “<He is just a boy. Would you treat your child like this?>”

            “<He looks like a man to me.>”

            That remark actually gave Jorah pause. Still, she didn’t back down. “<I will never abandon the king to you or Khal Drogo himself. Do with that what you wish.>”

            The warrior and several cohorts stared her down as they galloped past them farther up the column, probably to inform a ko or somebody else close to the khal.

            Jorah reached over and stroked Daeron’s head. He lowered his head, silent tears sliding down his cheeks.

            “You’re in pain” she stated plainly. “I can tell. You’re coming with me. We’re off to Qohor.”

            Pained, Daeron shook his head. “I … won’t.”

            “Don’t be stubborn. You can’t do anything for her.”

            He looked at her through glassy eyes. “You pledged your loyalty to her.”

            She looked back plainly. “That was really to you.”

            “Then it’s to her.”

            “You’re just making it worse. Without proper attention, you will lose the use of that arm forever! Is that what you want?”

            “I don’t care! I will not leave Visenya! She’s my only blood! All that I have left!”

            Jorah reached for him. “I’ve heard enough of this! You’re coming with me …”

            He struggled against her and pushed her before painfully shuffling away. “N-No! Leave me … alone! Why do you suddenly care?!”

            Jorah stopped, stunned as tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he continued looking at her. The khalasar had all but left them at that point.

            He went on. “Where were you … when those savages … beat and defiled my sister right in front of me? Hmm? You swore to her, didn’t you? She needed you! We _both_ needed you! And you weren’t there! I love my sister … I love my sister so much that it _hurts_ … and they made me watch as they treated her worse than a _slave_!”

            He tugged at his hair with his good hand, gripping it so hard that he was shaking. He yanked a bit of silver-gold hair from his scalp.

            “Daeron … stop that!”

            He looked at the blood-tipped locks and closed his fist tightly around it. “Valyrian hair. The trait of a dragon.” He closed his eyes, remembering his vision of the cracked eggs with lively embers spilling forth. “I’m not worthy of it. I see that now. I’m weak. Too weak to protect the one that I love. They did all of that in front of me and I couldn’t do anything! I couldn’t save her!”

            Jorah reached for him. “Daeron … I’m so sorry.”

            He turned away from her and grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. “Like my sister, I will endure.” He spoke to her without looking back at her. “Jorah … tell me. Are you loyal to my sister and me, truly?”

            Her eyes shot wide and she nodded her head. “Of course.”

            “Then you will keep away from me and stay by her side always. I mean it.”

            Without another word, he stood up and walked on down the road to catch the trailing party of the khalasar. Jorah, slightly shamed, sat in silence for a while before remounting her horse.

 

            Daeron knew that he would never keep pace with the khalasar as a whole and for very long; so when he did catch the rear, he begrudgingly took a seat in a horse-pulled cart with the elderly, disabled or children too young to handle a horse. This, of course, brought him even more derision and disdain from nearby Dothraki men. He tried as hard as he might to ignore the laughter of men riding alongside his cart and did a horrible job of convincing himself that they weren’t talking about him.

            Jorah remorsefully rode far ahead of him in the column to abide his wish but did have Black Bear closer to watch over him and asked Rakharo to do the same.

            The khalasar didn’t travel to Vaes Dothrak; it seemed to make its way east towards the Lhazareen settlements as Jorah noted. She found it strange that they wouldn’t make for Vaes Dothrak yet she had nobody to voice her concerns towards considering her standing with Visenya and Daeron.

            Hours from sunfall, the Dothraki begin to set camp yet again amongst a land of ashes and ruined architecture. Not all were pleased with this.

            “<The wind speaks here. Spirits are shouting at us to leave this place.>”

 This was the sentiment of many in Drogo’s khalasar. The wind did indeed carry a soft howl and the skies seemed to darken overhead as if there were a promise of rain though no thunder nor rain followed. Hunters went out in search of food and found no animals in the immediate region. Scouts went to the ruined structures nearby and found everything was covered in hardened ash, whitened as a result. Droves of women, crones and children that were exiled from nearby settlements flocked to the men as they were detected, begging for nourishment and supplies. Able-bodied women and even some children offered their bodies. The Dothraki readily took advantage and used every willing person available, promising to return with goods later but never intending to follow through on the promise.

“<Khal, the people say this is a desecrated place.>” Ko Pono, a trusted lieutenant informed Drogo. “<That there is nothing but misery to be had here. We should move on.>”

Drogo turned and smiled at his gathered kos and bloodriders. “<Scouts have informed us that there are whores in the ruins begging for food and money. Give them nothing but do with them as you wish. They can’t be uglier than your wives.>” He mimicked thrusting with his hips and arms, while sticking his tongue out for demonstration. The gathered men laughed at the display. Drogo raised a finger as he continued on. “<We will settle here for the night. Fuck the spirits! We are flesh! And blood! No?!”>

They chuckled and responded with a resounding “<Yes!>”

<”What do we have to fear? Bring anybody who is afraid directly to me and I will gently remind them why we are fearless!>”

 

Daeron wandered over to nearby bushes and noted that it had only a few coarse leaves on its branches. The grass as a whole was discolored and undernourished. He looked up and spotted Jhiqui walking towards him with a gourd in her arms.

“Everything’s dead here, prince” she said as she stopped near him. She shook the empty gourd in her arms with very little water splashing about. “Even the water’s tainted.”

He shyly gave her a glance. Since his time with Doreah, he was beginning to notice the sexual allure of women other than his sister. Jhiqui was as young as him but she was already very pretty and had a woman’s wide hips as well as voluptuous breasts that threatened to spill out of the thin veil she wore for a dress. He tried his best to not to stare.

“What is this place?”

“I’ve heard it is called Vaes Mejhah. Suffering spirits reside here. It was touched by the Doom’s Fire.”

He perked up at the mention of that. “Doom? The Doom of Valyria?” An event that Visenya told him about that occurred over three hundred years prior that saw the end of the Valyrian Freehold and changed the face of the world forever. The death of a great civilization; he wondered just how far the Doom reached.

“Yes, prince.”

“Why would Drogo ever settle here?”

“I could never imagine.”

Her eyes followed his and she realized that he kept sneaking glances at her breasts. She giggled. “Though I can see what _you_ imagine.”

He looked and saw that she was laughing at him. He turned away and blushed. “I’m so very sorry. Please, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, prince. Excuse me.” She nodded as she walked past him. He nodded in return and looked in the distance towards the trees. A strong gust caused them to sway; the sound of the flittering leaves was almost ominous.

“Prince!” Jhiqui called out from behind him. “For _your_ spirits!”

Daeron turned to look at her as she was staring him down from yards away. When she had his attention, she used one hand to pull down the bust of her cloth and allow her large breasts to spill out and over, nipples and all; the satisfying bounce and darker shade to the areola but lighter shade elsewhere was a detail he would remember long afterwards. He gasped and nearly fell to his knees. After a few seconds, she stuffed them back inside before turning and running away from him towards the settlement, gourd in arm.

When she left, he did fall to his knees.

“The abuse continues” he muttered to himself.

 

When Daeron returned to the settlement, men were rifling through his things; clothes, jewelry and his books were dumped out onto the ground in front of the khalasar. He paused, stunned, before approaching.

“What are you doing?” he called out with an outstretched hand, looking to make them stop. “Those are my things!”

Just as he was beginning to close the distance, another Dothraki collided with him and shoved him to the ground. He landed on his splinted arm and hissed in pain. When he turned back to look, an arakh’s blade was pointed in his face. “Khal Rhaggat!” he shouted down at him.

Daeron heard some tearing behind the man so he shifted his eyes to see that they were tearing the pages out of his books, including his treasured books he received from Jorah. He shook his head as they pulled him to his feet.

 

 

 

** Jeyne **

****

****

****

 

            With the lord commander’s blessing and the protection of her guards, Jeyne was permitted to leave Castle Black’s walls but remain in close proximity and for a short amount of time. The girls, Ghost, as well as Venyon and Chrissen were just outside its walls in the nearby woods as Ghost ran off to hone her hunting skills. Venyon was seated cross-legged against a tree, sharpening a dagger on a small whetstone. Chrissen was nearby trying to lure him into a conversation about whore houses in the north.

Jeyne Poole shook her head at this and just looked around at her surroundings before honing in on her bastard companion. Jeyne was seated with her back against another tree. She had tugged off her winter gloves and seemed to be looking at the skin and nails of her hand rather closely as if she could see something different than what everybody else saw.

Fascinated, Poole continued to watch her. A short time later, Ghost returned and bounded towards Jeyne, happily bouncing around her front side and lap. She watched as Ghost playfully tugged at the sleeve of Snow’s overcoat, drawing her arm back and forth with her developing teeth while she giggled at the young thing. Although, Poole was still wary of the beast, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight. She quickly turned away, hoping that Snow wouldn’t catch it but she was far too late.

“Jeyne!” Snow called out to her.

Reluctantly, Poole looked back at her. “Yes?”

She waved her over. “Come here!”

Poole shook her head. “I’m fine! Thank you!”

Snow groaned loudly and waved her over again. Jeyne Poole didn’t move.

“Don’t make me come over _there_!”

Poole couldn’t help but smile as she cautiously walked over to Jeyne in the manageable snow and plopped down in front of her at her tree. Snow spent a few moments, staring at her, smiling as she scratched Ghost’s ears.

Her eyes shifted to Ghost for a moment. “You want to touch her?”

Jeyne grew apprehensive. “I –I …”

She looked back at her. “She likes you, you know?”

“She does?”

“Yes. You can be her second favorite human. I’ll admit that there isn’t a lot of other candidates but what can one do? Just imagine how big she’ll be one day. Nobody will ever even take a hard glance at us. Amazing protection. And also; look at this fur!”

Jeyne rubbed and softly plucked at Ghost’s coat to demonstrate. “Perfect and white as snow. So pretty! Are you saying you want no part of this? Go on. Touch her.”

Poole tilted her head. “I suppose she _is_ pretty …”

“See!”

Cautiously, Poole reached out with her right hand and moved to shyly pet the top of her head. Ghost’s eyes followed it and she reached up to lick Poole’s hand. Poole flinched away at first, but she relented as Ghost continued to lick her fingertips. She giggled and brought her hand slowly downwards under her snout as Ghost continued.

“I told you. She likes you.”

She let the two get acquainted as Poole took to rubbing Ghost’s neck and back quickly thereafter. She reached into her satchel nearby.

“Jeyne, I know we haven’t eaten this morning but I wanted to share something with you …”

When Jeyne Poole looked up from Ghost, she saw that Jeyne was presenting her deep red apple.

“It’s the last apple I bought from Olven a few days ago. It’s not as fresh but it was the best fruit I’ve tasted. I want you to try it.”

She slowly took the apple and let her hand fall into her lap, looking the apple over. Jeyne watched her, puzzled.

“I don’t understand. Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m practically your servant. I’ve been nothing but horrible to you in the past. Shouldn’t you want me to be miserable?”

Jeyne shook her head. “That’s not my way.”

“So you want to be my friend?”

“Is that really so bad?”

“I don’t think I want to be friends with you.”

Jeyne leaned back against her tree, resting the back of her head. “Please don’t be difficult. We’re the only girls here. We should look out for each other.”

Poole brought the apple up to her mouth and took a cautious bite. She wiped the running juices with the back of her gloves, sucking up the rest of it in her mouth. “I will concede that that is really good.”

Jeyne still rested her head against the tree but gave a knowing smile. “I told you.”

Jeyne Poole looked down at the apple and made a realization. She lowered it to her lap and looked back at Jeyne apologetically.

Jeyne recognized this and waved it off. “Its fine, Jeyne. It’s in the past.”

“But … Sansa …”

“You don’t have to defend her or apologize for her. She’s _my_ sister. Our issues are between _us_.”            

That quieted her for a while.

“Have you noticed?” Jeyne Snow’s eyes wandered around without moving her head. “It’s so quiet out here. Back home in the wolfswood and godswood, it’s always lively with the calls of animals and rustling trees. But here … nothing but the occasional wind. It’s odd … but I kind of like it.”

Poole didn’t respond to that but absently took a bite of the apple and rubbed Ghost’s fur. “I’m not Arya.”

“What do you mean? Of course not.”

“I’m not into those things you two … like. I guess I’m not that fun.” She gave a sardonic chuckle as she took another bite.

“I want you to be _yourself_.” Jeyne assured her.

Poole looked up from the apple. “Are you sure?”

That drew a surprised look from Jeyne. She intended to respond but they heard some approaching footsteps in the snow. The two shifted their attention to two black brothers approaching.

“Girls, we were sent to inform you that we are breaking fast in the common hall.”

Chrissen shouted in the distance. “Well, it’s about gods’ damn time! It better not be molded bread and soup again!”

 

  
            Jeyne watched for a while as Ghost tore into some bloody raw elk meat in the corner of the room in a bowl for set aside for her. She was utterly fascinated in watching the direwolf feed, learn, and grow. She often wondered how she would turn out as she matured. Would she turn feral and be forced to leave her? Would she remain loyal?

Jeyne Poole shifted her food around with her fork. The eggs, blood sausage, rice and spinach were fine though it wasn’t up to the standards of what they were usually served in Winterfell. No, though they sat at the same table as the lord commander and his closest men as well as Maester Aemon and Tyrion Lannister, she couldn’t help but remain overly aware that she herself and Jeyne Snow were getting the fair share of attention from almost every man there. Her companion pretended not to notice but she herself couldn’t pretend that it didn’t bother her. She tried to turn her mind from it; tried not to imagine where their minds wandered but each time she noticed their eyes dart over her form, her blood ran cold.

“—what do you think about that?” she hadn’t noticed that Jeyne had been speaking to her.

“I’m sorry. What was that again?”

Jeyne reached out and pulled some loose strands of Poole’s hair away from her eyes, causing the younger girl to flinch slightly in response. “I was just saying that both of us are in desperate need of a good brush, comb and oil. We should style each other’s hair. I can give you some northern braids. How would you like that?”

Jeyne Poole looked ahead and noticed that some men a few tables away turned back and snickered right at them as Jeyne fussed over her. “Y-yes, that will be fine. Later.” She gently pushed Snow’s hands away.

“Also, I have a good inkwell and feather” Snow went on. “I know that you miss your father and mother terribly. I miss my father. Arya. Robb. Bran. Rickon.”

“-And Sansa” Poole finished for her. _My best friend_. _I wish I was with her instead_.

“Y-yes. Of course. I think we should write them.”

Jeyne looked right at her, her eyes tearing up. “And tell them _what_? That I was almost violated?”

“ _Jeyne_.”

Jeyne Poole set down her fork. “I’m sorry. I’m not very hungry this morning. May I be excused?”

Jeyne Snow looked around, stunned.

Tyrion, whom was seated a few chairs to her right and had been having a conversation until a few moments prior when the Jeyne’s conversation had caught his interest, leaned over towards her. “I believe she’s asking _you_ , Snow.”

She began rubbing her forehead in frustration. “Yes, that’s fine.”

Jeyne Poole quickly stepped away from the table and grabbed her crude plate and cup to depart.

Snow quickly turned to Chrissen. “Go with her.”

He had a mouthful of rice. “But I’m still eating –“

Jeyne gave him an expectant look.

Chrissen gave an exaggerated groan as he dropped his fork and knife to his plate and started after Poole, bumping Venyon on his way up.

Tyrion gave it a few moments before leaning back over to Jeyne. “May I give you some advice?”

Her eyes fluttered as she gave a short, annoyed sigh in his direction. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Well, anyways, that other one, Jeyne. She isn’t like you. She’s a young, normal girl.”

Jeyne gave him a look that read that she was offended.

“You know what I mean. She’s flighty, frightened even. Her first full day, she was almost violated here. Do you think she feels safe?”

Jeyne scoffed.

“You have to be firm with her. Keep her mind off of this place. Keep her occupied. Make her see to you.”

“You mean, treat her like a lowborn. Smallfolk?”

             “It’s what she is. You’re doing her a disservice treating her any different.”

“We were both raised in Winterfell and Winter town; we had the same lessons; shared friends and septas. We’re no different.”

Tyrion gave her a perturbed look.

“You said it yourself. I’m a bastard. I have no right. I’m no better.”

“You’re her _lady_! And by talking of braiding each other’s hair and old times’ sake like you want to be flower girls together, you are failing her. Remind me again; what sort of family does she come from again?”

Somewhat put upon and uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Jeyne hesitated to answer. “The Pooles have good standing … I mean … they’re banners to the household.”

“What’s the patriarch’s occupation? The father?”

“…He is steward of Winterfell. Close to Lord Stark.”

“So she will likely be steward as well. A servant. Perhaps a lady’s maiden. She will serve somebody else someday. Or are you expecting her to serve you forever?”

Jeyne slowly shook her head.

“So, kill her bad habits. Train her to serve you properly. It’s good practice. For you as well. I mean, you say you’ve had high schooling. Or are you simply a bastard girl?”

Jeyne’s jaw tightened again as she responded. “I’m not.”

“Well, you should act like it. But then again, maybe you’re right. You know your Jeyne Poole a lot better than I. I’m only from one of the Great Houses in King’s Landing and have been around all manner and classes of folk all my life. I’m sure you can handle this situation a lot better than I.”

She didn’t respond, thinking over his words.

“Well, I suppose it’s up to you but from what I see, things aren’t going well the way they have been going.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

Would she switch her tactics with Jeyne Poole? Honestly, she hadn’t considered it until Tyrion’s tirade but it did give her something to think about. Still, she didn’t wish to dwell on it too much as she had other things on her mind as well.

She turned to Venyon. “Venyon, something’s been bothering me for a while now and I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with it.” She watched as he chewed on crispy bacon.

Without actually looking her way, “What is it, miss?”

“En route to Castle Black, what happened in that cave? The complete story.”

Nothing Venyon did gave any sign that he was being cautious or sly; he simply chewed his food.

“I thought you had been told” Venyon said, “that it was a wildling attack.”

Jeyne nodded. “Yes, I have been told that but it doesn’t sound right.”

“Sound right?” Venyon scoffed, looking at her and speaking as he chewed a sausage, juice spewing from his lips. “Tell me, girl, since you’re an expert; have you ever seen a wildling?”

“N-no …” Jeyne stammered.

“I figured as much. Heathen, vile filth who would steal you and give you over to their clansmen to rape you until you are useless. Then they would hang your limbs from poles and use the meat and organs inside. They kill men and children and eat their flesh. They use human bones for decoration and tools. They are accustomed to cold that would leave you frostbitten in minutes and fight with the ferociousness of beasts. They are barely human and if there had been more in that cave, we might not be having this meal.”

Jeyne settled back in her seat, looking at him uncomfortably. She was unsure whether to keep eating or just sit there.

He set his utensils down and pushed his chair away to stand from the table. “I’m finished. I’ll stand guard nearby. Take your time.”

Jeyne watched him leave for a moment before returning her gaze before her, lost in thought for a moment.

“The way he talks about them, you would think that wildlings are more than nomads freezing their sacks off in the snow.” Tyrion raised a goblet of wine to his lips. “Makes you wonder. Yet, they want me to beg my dear brother-in-law, good King Robert, for more men on their behalf?”

Jeyne looked back to him, regaining her train of thought. “More men? A lot more?”

“An _unreasonable_ amount.” He sighed and took another gulp of wine. “You would think it was more to it than wildlings. Though, I suppose that with all their whining and begging, I have no choice but to oblige or else I’ll never hear the end of it from your uncle.”

The mention of her uncle immediately caught her attention. “…my lord, what do _you_ remember from that cave?”

“You insist on keeping with this ‘my lord’ business.” He looked at her and realized that she was hanging for his answer. He sighed and shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t see anything. Much the same as you.”

 

Jeyne Poole quickly noticed that multiple men were hard at work; they were carrying vertical-rising, cone-shaped cages towards the yard’s centre. Although she tried to avoid paying too much attention, she noticed that her attackers were among those that carried them. Unfortunately the one with the growing beard and primary perpetrator, Rast, seemed to notice her. She stopped at the sight of him as they approached and set the cages down in place; he turned in her direction and spat towards her.

She quickly crossed the courtyard towards the King’s Tower. As she passed several men resting on benches nearby, she noticed that their eyes followed her the entire way. She wanted to break out in a run but she feared that they would give chase. She half-turned and realized that Chrissen Myrth was following her. She didn’t trust him so much but she was glad nonetheless. _Thank the old gods_. She hurried the rest of the way.

She was soon in the hallway to her and Snow’s room, bounding towards her destination when Chrissen called out to her.

“Girl!” She tried moving on, hoping that he would somehow not try to communicate further if she ignored him. “Girl! I’m talking to you!”

His sudden shout frightened her and caused her to stop by her door to wait on him. She slowly looked at him as he approached. Chrissen was noticeably the youngest and most traditionally handsome of Snow’s four guards. He was of average height and build though he usually kept a slight slouch in his shoulders and back that made him appear smaller than he actually was; he was pale and almost pallid, drawing a stark contrast with the dark pouches under his eyes. His eyes were dark and the contrast against his skin, along with the dark pouches made his eyes seem to be the blackest set she had ever seen. His hair was long and bushy but frayed as if it was always in a state of dampness but didn’t take to it properly. He was clean-shaven and carried a strong, sturdy chin as well a well-shaped cheekbones, features she imagined maidens would use to describe their favorite knight. The features didn’t mask the aura of intensity she felt from him, for her father had always warned her to stay from him among others.

“Oh, my girl!” he cried out as he closed in on her. “You’re right traumatized, aren’t ya? So frightened at the sight of a man. A lot smarter than that bastard, Snow.”

He approached, cornering her by her door. She tried to turn towards the door to unlock it but he placed both hands on the wall on either side of her head, trapping her and brought his face close. “You have nothing to fear from me, my sweet. But your bastard, you better straighten her up real quick. Teach her. Enlighten her. Bitches are prey for the male wolf. Compliant, quiet and decent for bearing young. Otherwise, they should run and hide. She keeps mouthing off and pushing my boys … then well …”

            He used his right open palm to smash the wall to the left of her head and allowed her to duck under his arms and scurry away. He casually watched as she struggled with shaking hands to use the door’s key to unlock it and let herself inside. He smiled to himself as he could hear her whimpers as she even dropped the key once and hurriedly picked it up.

            “Jeyne!” he called out to her, drawing her attention. “I’ll rely on you from here on out. Don’t disappoint me.”

            She struggled with the door some more before she finally yanked it open and slammed it shut behind her.

           

            “Lord Commander!” Jeyne called after Jeor Mormont outside of the common hall where he was heading to what was presumably his keep. Ghost and Venyon Tice were on her heels. She briefly caught sight of several long, thin cages near the main yard before the halls and briefly paused at the sight.

            Jeor, whom was walking with Bowen Marsh, the First Steward, as well as Ser Alliser Thorne, turned at the call of his position. “Ah, Jeyne. I’ve heard that you almost fell from the King’s Tower. Are you well?”

            “Oh! That, Lord Commander? I’m fine. That was just a misunderstanding.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes, Lord Commander.”

“Jeyne? I thought I was clear that we were using our first names?”

            Jeyne stopped before him and humbly bowed her head in apology. “I apologize, Jeor. I’m sorry to ask but I’m deeply worried. My uncle, Benjen Stark, was sent on a great ranging last night. He told me it was for a month. I would like peace of mind, if that isn’t too much trouble.”

            Jeor looked at Bowen Marsh with uncertainty but Ser Alliser’s jaw tightened before he spoke for the lord commander. “Miss Snow, your _uncle_ is a man of the Night’s Watch. If he can no longer lead a successful ranging, I suppose it’s well and good that we find out now. As for this questioning, the lord commander has much better things to do than –“

            Jeor chuckled and patted Ser Alliser’s arm, interrupting him. “Now, now, Ser Alliser. Settle; it’s quite alright. It’s her family. I absolutely understand the feeling. I promise, Jeyne, that this is just a routine precaution to standard reports of wildling activity. We expect regular reports from his ranging and I will update you on his current condition _myself_ as I receive the reports.”

            Jeyne was slightly surprised. It didn’t escape her how generous that was and she found herself continuously warming up to the lord commander. She bowed her head again. “You’re more than kind. Thank you.”

            “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked expectantly.

            “W-why, y-yes. I was … hoping you could direct me to your … rookery.”

            “The … rookery?” asked Ser Alliser.

            “Yes …” Jeyne said with a bit of uncertainty. “I … would like to see the ravens …”

            “My girl” Jeor said, “if you would like to send a letter, you only need to pass it to your men or steward. We’ll be sure that it’s sent.”

            “I apologize, but I would just really like to see the rookery in person.”

            Jeor sighed and gave a slight shrug. He turned and pointed out a stout building to the west of the main hall with an exterior stairwell leading over its rooftop. “They are just over there above the maester’s quarters. The maester and his stewards tend to the birds and see to the parcel. Would that be all, Jeyne?”

            “Yes, Jeor. I humbly thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

            Jeor nodded and started off before immediately turning back and saying something else. “Before I forget; Tyrion Lannister is taking his leave from us tomorrow morning so we will have a farewell feast tonight. I’m not making you attend but I will say the festivities will be much grander than our usual fare. Don’t tell everybody but the food and drink will be better as well. I’d highly recommend it.”

            Jeyne gave a soft chuckle and nodded. “I won’t miss it.”

            “I’m glad. Until later, Jeyne.”

            With that, Jeor and Bowen turned and walked towards his keep. Jeyne calmly reached down to stroke Ghost’s head, whom playfully nipped at her fingers in return. She gave an assured glance back at Venyon, who shook his head. She turned her attention back in front of her and flinched when she saw that Alliser Thorne had stepped right in front of her.

            “Yes?”

            “Got quite the nerve, girl. Hmm?”

            Jeyne’s brows furrowed in confusion.

            “It’s already a mockery that you’re here. You’re a distraction from the real work and honor that these men take part in every day. I will tell you this once, girl.”

            He raised a gloved hand and pointed a finger right in her face. “I will not have you and that lowly wench of yours batting your lashes at my men. You will _not_ pester the lord commander anymore. Am I understood, bastard?”

            Jeyne glared up at him, poorly disguising her newfound distaste for him. Even Ghost stood up on her haunches and watched him carefully, eyes attentive for a threat.

            This didn’t escape Ser Alliser. “That face of yours; you better watch it with me, girl. I don’t put up with tripe from the men and I will be tossed before I’m disrespected by a bastard girl. You’ll feel the back of my hand if it goes on and I’ll carve that mutt of yours for good measure if it wishes.”

            Venyon Tice stepped forward, a bald barrel of a man who looked like he was good for a few fights. “Now, now” he said in his husky voice. “Ser, no need for threats. I thinks the girl gets your meaning and she won’t bother the lord commander again. Isn’t that right, Snow?”

            Venyon turned to Jeyne and waited on her answer. He pushed her shoulder when she didn’t immediately respond.

            With reluctance. “Yes, Ser. My humblest apologies. I won’t bother the lord commander again.”

            Ser Alliser’s eyes watched her intently before they drifted to Venyon, then back to her again. Without another word, he walked off and went about his business.

            Jeyne turned on Venyon.

            He beat her to it. “Very foolish to make enemies here, Snow.”

            “He’s an ass.”

            “Respect, bastard. He’s a knight and a man of the Night’s Watch or do you not know what that means?”

            With an irritated groan, she waved that off and began walking away when he called for her. “You _are_ disrespectful.”

            She stopped and half-way turned to him in clear discord. “He just threatened to strike me and kill Ghost. You don’t have any thoughts on that?”

            “… Clearly, I wouldn’t have actually let him touch …”

            Jeyne turned and walked away in disgust as Ghost bounded after her.

            “Where are you going?” he called after her. She didn’t stop so he spit on the ground and started after her.

 

            “What’s got your smalls all twisted up anyway?” Venyon called out after her as he followed her and Ghost up the stairs to the rookery. As it turned out, while the rookery could be accessed from the maester’s quarters, it was constructed so that one could access the rookery without disturbing the maester himself. “You have an urgent letter or ya just fancy birds?”

            Jeyne ignored him and continued until she reached the cages where Maester Aemon was seated on a bench, while his steward, Clydas, fed the ravens in their cages from a bucket of bleeding, stripped meat.

            “Somebody’s here?” wondered Aemon, whom looked upwards with ill eyes, hearing their approach on the wooden steps.

            “Aye” replied Clydas, a short, stubby man dressed in heavy, black robes like his maester. “The Jeyne girl and one of her guards.”

            “Ohhh”, Aemon said, bracing himself on a nearby place to stand.

            “Please …” Jeyne murmured as she hurried over and helped him stand up.

            “Why thank you, Miss Snow. Fine morning to you. What matters bring you to visit this place?”

            Jeyne waited until he gathered his footing before stepping away slightly. “I’m sorry to disturb you, maester and I surely didn’t intend to do so. I wished to see the ravens.”

            Besides the maester and his steward, Venyon was also taken aback.

            “Why so, my child?” came Aemon’s wavering voice.

            Jeyne turned and walked over to a particular raven’s cage, putting a hand out to run a finger along its steel as the raven turned its head to and fro, flashing its black eyes at her as it sat contently perched on its still.

            “This may sound odd to you all” she said, turning to look at the other ravens within her eyesight before looking to the men as well. “This morning I was visited by a raven with blue eyes that glowed like the brightest moonlight filtered through ice. It … strongly affected me.”

            “Have you gotten into the mead barrels?” asked Venyon.

            “It happened, Venyon” Jeyne replied simply before looking to Clydas. “I just want to look at all the ravens. Do you have a raven like that? Have you seen a raven like that?”

            “You’re welcome to look, girl, but I must say that we do not carry a raven that you describe.”

            “Jeyne …” Aemon drew her attention back to him. “Come … closer …”

            She reluctantly went to him. With shaking hands, he reached out and touched her face. Surprised, she allowed him to hold the side of her head.

            “You … seem … at ill rest …”

            She closed her eyes and sighed. “I –I … I’m fine, maester. I hate to admit it but I haven’t eaten much lately and I miss home already. My senses must’ve left me.”

            He reached out and shook his head. “Are you being truthful, girl? Are you really well?”

            Jeyne gently pulled away. “I was … I was being foolish. I’m sorry for bothering you and you as well, Clydas. I’ll leave now. Come, Ghost.”

            With that, she turned and almost ran down the stairs. Ghost bounded after her as well. Venyon gave them one last look before following.

            “Are –“

            “We will not talk about it.” Jeyne said quickly and that was the end of it.

            When they entered the yards, they noticed that Chrissen Myrth was talking to some brothers. He turned towards them when he was alerted to their presence.

            He called towards them. “There you are.”

            “Where is Jeyne?”

           

            Jeyne Poole was again laid up in her servant’s quarters, shedding tears as she laid on her side once again.

            Her door suddenly opened and light spilled through.

            “This _again_ ” Jeyne sighed in exasperation.

            “Please … just leave me alone.” Jeyne Poole whimpered.

            “Sorry, Poole. Not a chance.”

            Jeyne reached and grabbed the smaller girl by the shoulders, quickly yanking her to her feet.

           

            Jeyne steadied her companion on their balcony, overlooking the yard. “Now, I’m starting to think dark thoughts so I would love to be distracted from them and I’m sure you would as well. Now, we’ve only been here for a couple of days and that’s the second time I’ve found you crying alone.”

            Jeyne Poole wiped her eyes and simply looked at her for a moment before looking down below. It seemed that Ser Alliser Thorne were gathering the new recruits to begin arms training. “You find this … entertaining?”

            “Better than other things” Jeyne responded. “This is good. We should have a conversation as well.”

 

            “I see that you sissies can at least fit into cheap armor!” Ser Alliser shouted at his charges. “Good! Now take up swords and pair up! Let me see what you’ve got!”

            For the first time in a while, Jeyne breathed with excitement and jittered as she looked over the railing; she could hardly keep still. This didn’t escape Jeyne Poole. The presence of hard steel and men looking to hurt each other seemed to excite the young girl more than anything. She just didn’t understand it.

            The pair watched as the armored young lads took up dull-edged swords and swung at each other, performing their clumsy dancing of pretend warfare.

            “You lot are embarrassing!” Ser Alliser shouted amongst the crowd over the clanging metal and grunts. “Is this what the seven kingdoms sent me?”

            Of the new recruits, Jeyne couldn’t help but notice one of the largest there, man or boy, who swung his sword at his opponent like he was trying to dent his chestplate and knock him forty yards away. However, each strike missed and his sparring partner cautiously but comfortably slipped past each swing. The big boy stumbled, often tripping over his feet.

            “Well, his stance and movement is just terrible” murmured Jeyne, earning another uneasy glance from Poole.

            His partner slipped past the tall boy yet again, kicking him in the rear knee before leaping and striking the back of his forehead with his left forearm. Surprisingly, he turned towards the King Tower’s balcony and spoke directly to the girls.

            “My ladies! My ladies! I am Matthar!”

            Jeyne couldn’t help but smile. He was attempting to beckon to them like highborn ladies, waving his sword and gesturing with affection.

“Honor me with your grace and attention! My performance is in honor of you! Watch I beat this big bag of rocks back to- aghk!”

            While he was turned towards Jeyne, the large recruit swung his sword low and swept his legs out from under him. Matthar humorously flopped to the ground and his opponent prepared his finishing blow.

            “I yield! I yield!” Matthar cried, throwing his gloved hands up.

            “You yield?” cried Ser Alliser with a mocking chuckle. “What did you think this was, boy? A king’s tourney? That you were you gonna flash yer cock and those _fair_ maidens would gift their favors? Well, those aren’t fair maidens! One of them’s lowborn and the other’s a bastard! And you are no _gallant_ knight!”

            Ser Alliser turned away from him towards the other recruits. “But I’m a humble man! I can admit I’ve been wrong! You just may be! You two!”

            He pointed out two other fresh recruits: Dareon and Albett and beckoned them towards Matthar and Halder, the large boy. “Let’s see just how gallant he really is! Whoever puts him down the hardest can sit out the rest of session and yell out whatever he likes at the others!”

            Dareon and Albett gave a short glance towards each other and crept towards Matthar. Matthar leapt up in a defensive stance. The large Halder started towards him as well. It happened quickly. Albett leapt towards him only for Matthar to repel his sword with his own. Albett stumbled away. Halder’s next swipe was guarded by Matthar but his strength caused him to stumble all the same. That was it for him. Dareon took the opportunity and struck him in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The three took to hacking at his armor and legs, each intent on taking a rest for the day. Their weapons were blunted but they were still of steel. Matthar tried calling out but he quickly learned to curl up and hope not to get hit in the head too much.

            Ser Alliser watched all of this laughing and looked up to Jeyne on the King’s Tower balcony.

            Jeyne lowered her head and sighed.

            Jeyne Poole looked at her. “You find this fun? Sansa was right about you. You’re a poor excuse for a lady.”

            Jeyne gave her a fleeting glance as she retreated back inside. She clasped her hands together so hard that they were shaking and lowered her head between her arms.

 

 

 

** Daeron **

 

 

 

 

He was placed on his knees in Drogo’s presence. Near the khal’s nearly-erected tent, he as well as Visenya, were seated in bejeweled and adorned chairs not unlike thrones. There were firestands nearby and his kos and bloodriders attended as well. Jorah Mormont was standing at their side with her hands folded in front of her. She gave Daeron a sympathetic gaze but the look Daeron returned was neutral and decidedly cold.

Drogo spoke to Jorah.

“The khal bears no ill will towards you” Jorah translated to Daeron. “However, he cannot let you go unpunished for your defiance. It would set a bad precedent. From henceforth, you will not be afforded special privileges. You will have to earn your way. You will fight for Khal Drogo. You can earn a horse the right way. Keep a portion of what you plunder. You will sleep under the stars like an honorable warrior.”

Fight for Khal Drogo? He would never. “And if I refuse?”

Drogo smirked. He seemed to understand. He said more.

Jorah swallowed. “You will be exiled immediately. You will be sent into the wilderness with nothing and no _one_.”

Daeron looked up to his sister, seated there beside Drogo. She was there but her she rested her chin on one hand and her eyes were drifting off into the distance. “Visenya …”

He moved to get up from his knees when several dothraki shouted him and brandished their arakhs; one man cracked his whip, striking so close to Daeron’s right hand that he thought he had actually been struck but no; it was the sharpness of the air and his body’s natural sense of proximity that alerted his nerves.

“The khaleesi cannot help you here” Jorah informed him as she swallowed with a raised chin.

Daeron swiped at the earth before him in frustration, sending some dirt flying. Drogo smiled at this. His attention was averted when _Ko_ Pono’ s men returned with several men, women and even children bound by rope at their wrists.

Drogo hunched forward, demonstrating great interest. <”These are the ones who fear?>”

Pono nodded. “<Yes, khal.>”

Drogo considered the cowards before pointing out the largest man amongst them, for multiple reasons. His men brought the poor soul over to a nearby stake, brandishing arakhs to make him comply. He pleaded for mercy and the others gathered began wailing for forgiveness. Daeron watched as they forcefully bound his thighs, ankles and throat to the stake with thick rope as well as his hands behind his back around the stake. His rope around his throat was just enough to hold him but not constrict unless he tried to get away; he was forced to stand against the stake and was unable to move much at all.

Daeron tried to look away but the whip cracked at him again, wielded by the same Dothraki. He flinched away, looking first at the Dothraki and then at Drogo whom had moved over to a torchstand. Drogo was looking right back at Daeron and gestured to him to watch the display by taking the fore and middle fingers of his left hand from in front of his own eyes and pointing to the stake. Drogo held the blade of an iron dagger in the flames, turning it steeped and heated.

His riders ripped the large man’s pants open and tore it to pieces, exposing the man’s genitalia. Daeron didn’t like where this was heading but knew he would be struck if he looked away so refrained from doing so.

<You are fools!>” shouted the captive man. <”Don’t you see? There is gods are gone from here! There is nothing but accursed ghosts! We are doomed to die!”>

Pono reached out and yanked him forward, choking him. <”The gods care not for you, coward! Bugs await you, not the nightlands!”>

<”You … are afraid ...”> the man choked out. <”I can see …”>

<Ehhhh!> Pono shouted, tugging the man’s hair and bringing his blade to his face.

“<Enough!”> shouted Drogo as he approached. <”Silence!”>

Drogo walked over to the man, waving Pono off though his riders kept their hands on the man to keep him in place.

The man was breathing heavily, sweating as he looked at his khal and the blade in his hands. “<Khal, please –“>

Drogo looked deeply into his eyes, perhaps into his soul.

When Drogo stepped closer, the man began to plead again. <”Khal, I apologize. I will not speak out of turn again. I –“>

Drogo placed his free hand on the man’s shoulder, quieting and calming him. He clapped him a few times on his solid shoulders. “<Quiet. Quiet. You are a big man, no? Strong. Why the pleading and begging? This is what a woman does. Where are your balls? You do have balls, yes?>”

The man followed Drogo’s eyes to his genitalia. Drogo looked back up into the man’s eyes and grinned. “<I see. You do. I just have to be sure.”>

Drogo stabbed the hot blade into the man’s scrotum from underneath, almost pinning it to his leg. The man immediately screamed out and began thrashing in his binds and choking himself. Daeron winced and sat in stunned silence. Drogo took the blade and held the man by the scrotum; he set to saw at the fleshy cords within with the blade, drenching his own arm in blood and fluids.

As the man began to slump in his binds, attempting to strangle himself, Drogo’s bloodriders and kos moved to restrain the man in an upright position. After a few moments, Drogo severed the man’s testicles from his body and held them in one bloody hand. Drogo took the blade and jabbed at the man’s mouth, poking him a few times in the lips and teeth. The man instinctively opened his mouth and Drogo quickly forced the man’s testes inside with the mostly detached, bloody cords still present. After he stuffed the man’s mouth, he stifled it as well as the man’s nostrils with one open palm. The man choked and struggled under Drogo’s hand, rubbing his limbs so much in his binds that his flesh tore and bled. Due to his heightened adrenaline and heart rate, the man suffocated quickly in under two minutes. Drogo waited a few moments after the man jerked a few more times and stilled.

Eventually, the khal stepped away and looked at his work before addressing all in attendance.

“<I am Khal Drogo!”> he bellowed, occasionally beating on his chest to display his emotion. <”I will not be questioned! Ever! Gods and ghosts cannot crush the hearts in your chests! I _will_! We will ride! Fight! Fuck! Eat! Shit! Wherever I say! Men who complain will not ride! If you have a hole between your legs, you know my use for you! Keep your mouths shut!” >

He looked around the area at all of their faces for a few more moments before stopping to look at his victim bound on his stake. His head was slumped forward and obscenely displayed a stuffed, bloody mouth with a cord hanging loose.

Drogo then noticeably slumped and regressed to a relaxed demeanor immediately. <”Now, we are here! Relax! Settle! Eat! Fuck! We have a day ahead of us! You may leave!”>

The men released their bound captives and allowed them to return to their previous activities. The idea is that they would tell of what had happened and the undesired behavior would cease for if it didn’t, Drogo would make even more examples.

Drogo then turned back to Daeron, surprising him since he hadn’t had the khal’s attention for quite a while. Drogo spoke to him in broken Common Tongue again. “Your ans …wer …King.”

Drogo moved to the area behind Visenya’s chair and began to roughly rub her shoulders, making her shudder. He then reached down and ripped her bodice, freeing her left breast. He squeezed her hard and Daeron saw Visenya make a face as if fighting the urge to show pain. Drogo continued kneading her while she made apparent attempts to keep mum.

Believing he was doing this to get a rise out of him and knowing that he had no real choice in the matter, Daeron acquiesced. “Fine. Yes. I’ll fight for you.”

Drogo nodded and gave a low chuckle. He reached down and bodily lifted Visenya out of her chair, slinging over his shoulder as if he were carrying a blushing bride and as easily as a child. He stormed off with her in tow in the direction of their tent and Daeron was left there cursing his name.

 

“Where do you usually sleep?” Daeron asked Rakharo a while later. The sun was beginning to set and since his tent was dismantled, he had no set place to sleep for the night; the thought of it along with everything else made him uneasy.

Rakharo stared blankly for a few moments and Daeron internally panicked. _Damn. I forgot that his Common Tongue isn’t too great. He may not understand me._

Rakharo gave it a few more seconds before covering his mouth and snickering. “I jest. I understand, prince.”

Daeron sighed and relaxed a bit.

“Under the stars, of course.” Daeron’s eyes and head followed his gestures to the sky. The orange-purple skyline did strike a beautiful portrait in his eyes but he was still troubled.

“What if it rains?”

Rakharro gestured around to some crones and children underneath a simple canopy of sticks and deerskin cover. “Share cover. Temples nearby. We find cover. Easy solution! You worry too much, prince.”

“I see.” Daeron rubbed the arm above his splinted elbow with his good hand nervously. “I was wondering … if you minded … if I slept near you for the night …”

Rakharo’s head drew back as if surprised by the implication.

“Of course, you can refuse. It’s just …”

Rakharo slapped him in the shoulder, rocking him and causing him grimace in discomfort. “Sorry, prince. Of course, you can rest with us!”

“Us?”

“Us! Come meet some friends, prince!” He threw an arm around Daeron and pulled him along.

Daeron hissed in pain.

“Sorry, again.”

 

 

** Jeyne **

 

           

 

 

“I did it again.”

            It was months prior to Bran’s fall; the king’s arrival; all of it. Jeyne looked back from her desk chair; she had been brushing her newly oiled hair, looking to style it into northern braids. “What did you do now?”

            Arya, whom was laying on Jeyne’s bed, was looking over a single red-tipped, meticulously carved, wood arrow. “I sheep-shit our big-mouthed sister.”

            Jeyne paused with a smile. “Is that why she had that odd, sweet smell today?”

            “Like she shit her smallclothes and drowned herself in perfume to cover it up?”

            “Arya!”

            “What? You’re laughing!”

            “I’m not!”

            “You are!”

            Jeyne did have a bit of a reluctant chuckle. Then, she put on her best straight face. She looked at Arya again. “You shouldn’t do that to your sister.”

            “ _Our_ sister.”

            “Why did you have to do it to Sansa? Why not one of those other girls? Like that Jeyne Poole?”

            “Because Sansa is the worst of them and you know it!”

            “If you say so.” Jeyne pulled her hair around the front of her neck so she could braid it properly. “I can’t finish these braids by myself, little wolf. Come help me.”

            “I’m no good at that” Arya whined.

            “Come onnn!” cried Jeyne, following her with her loose hair.

            “Nooo!” Arya yelled as she leapt off the bed to get away from her half-sister though Jeyne didn’t give up in her chase.

 

            Jeyne smiled and chuckled despite herself while thinking of that memory. She immediately stifled it, not wanting to be thought a fool. Her eyes drifted from her bed upon which she sat to her desk which she had permitted Jeyne Poole to use; the girl had taken to inkwell and feather to write a letter. Jeyne didn’t intend to pry herself into the girl’s affair but she imagined she was sending word to her mother in Winter town for it would be some time yet that the king’s party would arrive in Winterfell. The memory of her dear sister reminded her of the time she slashed herself to get the two of them out of a needlework session.

            She looked down at her right hand. It had been two weeks since that time and she had long discarded the blue cloth she used to wrap it. The wounded area’s center was a darkened purple with visible layers of skin slowly healing back around it. It extended almost all the way across her palm from forefinger to near the wrist. She supposed she had always known that it would scar horribly. She decided that she would treat it as a reminder of her love towards her little wolf. In her curiosity, she noticed that a small string of loose, new skin was hanging from the edge of the slash. She was always to type to pick at scabs and skin; she could never explain why. It just couldn’t be helped. She picked at it and pulled it loose. There was no harm but it opened up a tear in her new layer. She looked up, noticing that Poole was writing while Ghost was napping next to her bed. She had nothing else to do for the time being, so she kept picking. As she pulled at the skin, she felt a sense of dread, fearing what would come with it. She skin she tore led to the center of her slashed wound, reopening it. The purplish tone gave way to ripe, pink flesh underneath. No pain.

            _What’s inside?_

            The valley-like, indented shape of the wound reminded her of a crevice she could lose herself inside. She scratched at the pink with the forefinger’s nail of her other hand, eventually opening a small fissure. First, she could feel small droplets of moisture seep through before blood quickly followed and began to pool out over her palm. Excited by her progress, she franticly took to scratching at the opening to fit some fingers inside. She managed to fit two fingers within, feeling her own heat, flesh and hard bone. With a sharp jerk, she pulled towards herself; to her surprise, her own blood splashed her neckline, face and hair. The pain suddenly returned as the internal flesh of her palm felt the burning chill and tainted air of her environment. She wailed and screamed as she flung herself back onto her bed, clutching her torn and bleeding hand close to herself.

            Disturbed and legitimately worried, Jeyne Poole leapt from the desk and hurried over to Jeyne. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?” She crouched down next to her at bedside, frantically shaking her.

            Chrissen and Venyon burst into the room, drawing their swords. “What the _fuck’s_ going on in here?” shouted Venyon.

            Jeyne shouted at Poole as she raised her torn hand. “My hand! Can’t you- …?”

            She raised her right hand out to show them, only to realize that there was nothing physically wrong with it, save for the same scar tissue on from two weeks ago. She looked at it in confusion. She was still breathing loudly when she looked at Poole with genuine fear in her eyes.

            Poole recognized this and squeezed Jeyne’s shoulder. “Jeyne …?”

            Jeyne gave her a wide-eyed, frightened look before getting a hold of herself to her very own surprise. “It’s fine.” She spoke over Jeyne Poole’s shoulder to Venyon and Chrissen. “I’m fine! It’s fine.”

            “Fine?” Venyon grumbled, clearly irritated. “Everything’s fine, she says. If I have to come in again, _something’s_ gettin’ a stabbing. I’ll say that much.”  

            Chrissen clapped his partner on the back in sympathy. He gave Jeyne Poole a parting look; the two reluctantly left the room, slamming the door shut.

            Jeyne Poole watched as Jeyne fished a small, blue embroidery cloth from her things and fastened it tightly over her scarred hand. “Are you truly fine?”

            Jeyne hesitated after tying the knot over her hand and looking away. She turned back to her and smiled. “Yes, of course. I just had a little nap. A harmless dream was all it was. Truly.”

            Jeyne Poole nodded solemnly and moved to return to the desk.

            “Hold on, Jeyne! There’s something I want to discuss.”

            Jeyne actively stood up and began pacing in an attempt to gather her thoughts. She didn’t waste a thought to how silly she might’ve looked.

            Her companion actually giggled. “Are you sure you’re fine? Because you look ridiculous.”

            Jeyne finally stopped and faced her. “I have something to say to you. I’m sorry if I offend but please hear me out before you lash at me.”

            She stiffened and considered before answering. “Fine.”

            Jeyne let out a deep breath before going on. “I am a bastard, yes, but my father tells me to expect more privilege when he returns. My station may be rising.” _Could I be made legitimate? A real Stark? He is in King’s Landing. He could appeal to the king._

            Jeyne Poole wanted to laugh but wasn’t quite that insensitive to actually do it in Jeyne’s face. She gave herself a slight rub of her bottom lip to gather herself before giving Snow a nod. _Lady Stark would never allow that. She has to know that._

            Jeyne went on. “You are servants to my House, the Pooles are. That is the reason for your raised status. You are my steward but you haven’t been acting like it since we’ve been here.”

            Poole quickly lowered her head. “I’m terribly sorry.”

            “No, _I’m_ sorry.” Poole raised her head again and looked at Snow quizzically. “I’m your _lady_. We’re _both_ ladies, aren’t we? We’ve both had training with the septa. We know what to do. We know how to conduct ourselves. So why don’t we do it?”

            Poole struggled for an answer. “T-this place is … so dark … so cold …”

            Snow waved this off, shaking her head. “No, no; the location doesn’t matter. The circumstances are not unforgiving. Yes, I’m sorry for your attack but it isn’t … constant life. We are not besieged. We are not confined or tortured. We can still conduct ourselves as functional … _women_. We can still live.”

            “I’m afraid … I don’t understand.”

            Excitedly, Snow reached out and clasped Poole’s hands. “I know you’re sad. I am, too. I miss my father as well. But tell me, what are the best lessons Septa Mordane taught us?”

            “…Embroidery … piety …?”

            Snow gave her a baffled look. “Embroidery … piety …?”

            Poole was flustered. “I don’t know! You’re making odd statements! Y-you’re asking a lot of questions! I don’t … know! I panicked!”

            “Shh, shh, shh; calm down.” Snow attempted to calm her. “I just mean to say this. Girls have a very thin armor compared to the rest of the world. We are susceptible to any odd danger and we’re not even allowed _knives_ to protect ourselves. What is our armor? It is our wit and our performance!”

            “…Performance …?” She doubted the septa ever sought to teach them how to perform as a primary lesson. It was strict obedience. Stiff, raised backs, no fidgeting fingers, hands or feet, and never overexert oneself verbally nor physically.

            “We learned courtesies, homemaking, and musicianship. Women perform for the court and suitors. Women perform for their husband and children. Women can play at entertaining for some lord’s copper. We can play meek, noble and witty at any turn. So that’s what we’ll do. We’ll play to our audience.”

            Snow stepped away from her, kicking off her boots before stepping onto her own bed to stand over the younger girl, getting her attention. Even Ghost stood up on her legs with sudden interest.

            “What are you doing?” Poole asked, giggling.

            “Just getting you into it, girl” she said, bouncing up and down slightly on the mattress. “You were attacked. So they must see us as weak, vulnerable. _Prey_. But what haven’t they seen at the Wall from girls?”

            “…Ladies?”

            “Yes! Ladies! Ladies are detached. Ladies are on high, on a pedestal. Ladies are … godly. Add on to that, we are guarded; perhaps attacking highborn ladies will give these men pause like it does at a real castle. Think of it as an act. We can certainly have fun with it.”

            “Yes …” Poole murmured. “…an act.” She was beginning to warm to the idea. It did seem much less harsh than actually being rigid ladies completely all the time such as Septa Mordane lectured. If she was understanding Snow correctly, they would make a game of it and it would be serve to preoccupy their minds indeed.

            “But in order to act the part properly, we’ll have to be it. We’ll practice in this room. Early rise. We’ll maintain hygiene, proper making to this room and all our quarters; we’ll keep ourselves occupied by walking the yards. We’ll read whatever is available … aaaand …” she looked about the room for anything else to add, “… care for Ghost! Also, whatever else I can think of that won’t get us beaten and raped or just bored out of our minds.”

            Poole considered it for a while and it made the most sense to her. “Will I be calling you ‘your lady’?”

            “Only in public.” Snow was bouncing on her bed with glee at the fact that Poole seemed to be taking her heed.

            Poole had to admit Snow was charming. She was beginning to see what her sisters saw in her. She gave a nod. “I agree.”

            “Yes!” Snow exclaimed with a smile before beckoning her to join her atop the bed. “Come now! Dance with me!”

            “Ummm …” Poole gestured the door to the tub and her servant’s room. “I’m just going to lie down for a while if you don’t mind …”

            Just as Poole turned, Snow leapt from the bed to block her path to the door.

            “Yes … that’s another thing. You will be doing that a lot less often. I’m telling you that as your lady.”  

 

 

             By supper time, Chrissen and Venyon had changed shifts with Ossard and Tomas. Upon seeing the girls confidently stride the down the halls of the King’s Tower, they immediately stopped and took notice. Jeyne Snow was almost gliding instead of walking with her head held high with Jeyne Poole and Ghost calmly and smoothly sauntering in her wake. Finer dresses and wares they wore, yet with grey, muted colors akin to House Stark and so as to not draw _too_ much attention to themselves. These were but a few subtle but noticeable differences in their demeanor that Ossard picked up on right away.

            “They seem different somehow, don’t they?”

            “Still seem a bastard and her servant to me.”

 

            Due to the sun drawing down, dozens of torches were lit at scattered locations along the stronghold’s walls and corners. Jeyne noted some of these as she stepped outside. Another thing she noticed, along with her companions, were several men encased in cages in the yards’ center, six and half feet by two feet, tall and wide respectively. They were high enough for a man to stand uncomfortably but with only enough space to do just that. The three looked highly uncomfortable to her.  There were several armed brothers seemingly on guard.

            Jeyne stopped nearby. “What is this?”

            A guard gave a rotten-toothed smile. “Oy, these be your would-be rapists. Can’t rape nobody while locked up, I gander.”

            Jeyne Poole gave a quiet response. “That _is_ them.” She pointed to one on the far right whom had dark, matted hair and a scraggly scruff of an incoming beard. His arms were awkwardly hanging out of the cage and he glared right at them. Rast. “He’s the one who grabbed me first.”

            Jeyne looked to the guards. “How long are they being held?”

            “A few days” another guard spoke up. “Long enough for the lord commander to prove that the vows will not be broken … even with the added temptation.”

            “When do they … eat, sleep …” wondered Jeyne Poole aloud.

            “We let them out to get a few hours of sleep, not consecutively, mind ya but we gots to let them know that degenerate little shits won’t be tolerated at the Wall.”

            “They also gotta still do their duties, of course.”

            Another guard agreed. “O’ course. Yeah.”

            Jeyne Poole looked them over. Rast looked defiant and shot her looks of possible hate, something that still unsettled her. The other two, however, looked rather pitiful; one of them was over six feet tall and had to keep his neck bent forwards and to the side to fit comfortably inside the cage. The third prisoner was much smaller than the others; his face looked strained and on the verge of tears possibly for his situation. She couldn’t help but pity them all.

            Jeyne gently touched her shoulder, drawing her attention. “Come on. It’s done. We’re ladies. It doesn’t affect us anymore.” Although she herself said it, she said it knowing that the last part of her statement wasn’t completely true.

 

 

 

 

** Daeron **

 

 

 

 

 

In what were somewhat the outskirts of the camp, Rakharo led the young prince to a small campsite to meet three other young boys and surprisingly, Irri as well. The four of were laughing and passing around horns of hard milk. One of the larger boys was playfully poking at Irri while she forcefully pushed his hand away as she tried to take gulps from the horn. They heard the crunching rock and sediment, turning their attention to the boys approaching their site. They were surprised themselves that Rakharo had brought the silver-haired, almost ethereal prince. They fell silent and Irri choked on her milk slightly.

            “Irri?” Daeron questioned, recognizing her.

            “Prince …” Irri called out, startled.

            Rakharo looked back and forth between the two of them and smiled. “<Friends, this is the khaleesi’s brother.> Prince Daeron Targaryen. Daeron … these are my friends … Aggo … Quaro …Jhogo… and you know Irri.”

            “ _Khal Rhaggat”_ Quaro, whom was seated, called out caused Jhogo to snicker. Irri turned back and glared angrily at them.

            Rakharo put out a hand in peace. “Common Tongue, friends. Please. He speaks no Dothraki.”

            Quaro and Jhogo chuckled again. It was then that Aggo stood. He was older than the other boys, at sixteen years, practically a man already and larger than some of the men closest to Drogo. Both Quaro and Jhogo fell silent as he approached Rakharo and Daeron. He stood right in front of the prince, looming and looking down on him.

            “You … are the one who stood against the khal?” he asked, his voice deep and booming.

            Daeron swallowed. “He … my sister …”

            Aggo immediately threw his powerful arms around Daeron, drawing a pained grunt, and crushed him to his chest.

            “Aggo” Rakharo tapped Aggo on the shoulder. “He has … broken arm.”

            Aggo looked down at Daeron and opened his mouth wide in surprise. He released and stepped away. “My apologies, prince!”

            Daeron held his tempered arm, fighting back tears. “No worries … I need to sit down … please …”

            “Of course” Rakharo led him to a spot at the fire and supported him as he slowly crouched to the ground.

            Aggo followed Daeron and bowed his head before him, presenting a jagged blade with a meticulously-carved bone handle.

            “What is this?” Daeron questioned.

            “Forgive me” Aggo begged. “You may cut me wherever. I can take it.”

            “Stop it!” shouted a laughing Quaro. “Embarrassing! Be a man!”

            “It’s quite fine” Daeron said to Aggo. “I forgive you. Practically everything agitates my arm.”

            Aggo looked back up with relief in his eyes. Daeron saw that despite his size and strength, he was gentle and probably ill-liked for such kindness.

            “We all hate Drogo and everything close to him” Rakharo announced.

            “He killed my father” stated Quaro evenly.

            “Mine as well” said Jhogo, clenching his fist and nodding. “And raped my mother.”

            “He … took something … precious from me …” Irri said, shaking as she tried to sip from the horn and shifted uncomfortably before setting it low.

            “He disrespects the spirits” Aggo spat angrily, “and all tradition.”

            “Drogo does not respect _anything_ ” Rakharo said. “He only leads khalasar to ruin. We wait. Grow strong. One day we will leave. On our own.”

            “I see.” Daeron nodded. He lowered his eyes.

            Rakharo lowered his head, trying to catch Daeron’s eyes. “We leave _soon_. You should come.”

            Quaro looked at him, bewildered. “We never discuss this!”

            “<Why is he here?>” Jhogo demanded to know.

            “He is _Khal Rhaggat_!” Quaro pointed out. “It disgraces us to be near him!”

            “I don’t mean to cause trouble …” Daeron mediated.

            “He stays” Rakharo looked right into Quaro’s eyes. “Unless you want to fight again?”

            Quaro’s eyes followed Rakharo’s hand as he touched the short sword strung to his hip. He turned to Aggo.

            “Aggo?”

            Aggo rubbed his head, bald save for a short braid descending from the rear. “He is harmed by Drogo. Scarred. He is one of us.”

            Quaro leapt to his feet. “One of us?! <One of us?!> He is not even _Dothraki_!”

            Quaro turned heel and stormed off in the direction of the camp.

            Rakharo sat and shook his head before looking to Daeron. “He will get over it.”

            Irri passed Rakharo the hard milk, who passed it to Daeron. Daeron took it and his eyes coincidentally landed on Jhogo.

            “You may rest with us” Jhogo informed him, “but you cannot _ride_ with us. _Khal Rhaggat_. Hmph. We will lose _hrazef_.”

 

            Hours on in the midst of night, Daeron found himself enjoying their company. Having imbibed somewhat more than a horn of the hard milk, he felt his minor pain numbed and his inhibitions loosed. He found he could talk freely without worry while on the alcohol. He took to telling tales of his family’s history.

            “More than four hundred years ago, the Targaryens were one of the houses of the Valyrian Freehold”. His eyes drifted between the attentive looks of the others and the free-flying embers of their campfire; again, he was reminded of Visenya’s stone eggs. “Their lands spread well over these territories. However, one of my ancestors, Daenys Targaryen; she foresaw the Doom. Well before the Doom itself, the Targaryens took ship and dragon and fled across the narrow sea where we settled on the coast of those western land. Dragonstone. Westeros.”

            “Westeros …” Jhogo murmured. “This is … land khaleesi wish to conquer?”

            Daeron nodded. “Yes. While the Doom destroyed the Valyrian Peninsula and the Freehold, the Targaryens thrived on Dragonstone and made it a fortress. For over a century, my ancestors gathered resources, allies and prestige until an ambitious lord decided to act. Aegon Targaryen, or rather Aegon the Conqueror, set out to conquer all seven kingdoms of Westeros. He launched his campaign with his two sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, each of them the rider of a great dragon.”

            “Sister-wives?” questioned Irri.

            He went on. “Y-yes. The old family believed in wedding brother to sister to maintain the royal Valyrian traits and heritage. In two years’ time, Aegon managed to conquer six of the seven kingdoms. Dorne would remain defiant for quite some time.”

            “I don’t understand” Jhogo spoke up again. “You want us to fight for sister-fuckers?”

            “No …”

            Aggo leaned closer to Daeron. “Have you _fucked_ khaleesi?”

            Daeron gave him a disapproving side-glance. “…No!”

            “Then who?!” They all looked up and Rakharo had to turn his head to see that Quaro had returned to them stumbling with hard milk dribbling down his chest. He was stumbling, already quite intoxicated. “Why would we fight for this?”

            Daeron lowered his head. “I don’t want you to fight for that at all. Crossing the narrow sea and taking the Iron Throne is an impossible task. It’s my sister’s dream, not mine. I just want to live in peace. But … my sister … I … love her. I want to be by her side.”

            “Why aren’t you on the throne?” asked Rakharo. “Your ancestor … this …”

            “Aegon” Daeron finished.

            “Yes.”

            Daeron sighed. “Aegon brought the kingdoms together under his rule and established the Iron Throne. He set the precedence for all Westeros to follow even to present day. It took three centuries for the Targaryen dynasty to truly be challenged … but it was. Robert Baratheon, the usurper. He rose in rebellion against the throne and slew my great brother, Rhaegar Targaryen, in single combat. He ordered the death and desecration of my entire family. Only with aid of loyal lords and servants were my mother and sister able to escape. I was still inside my mother when they took sail. I was born shortly thereafter, at sea. So, you see; I have never set foot in Westeros. Essos is the only home I’ve ever known.”

            As Daeron finished, he upturned the horn and finished the last of his milk before wiping his mouth. The others fell silent, reflecting on his words and lost in deep thought. Eventually, Irri shifted forward and offered her own horn.

            “You should have some more, prince.”

            He accepted it with a smile.

            “I … don’t understand” Aggo spoke up. “This Robert Usurper … he do this to family … you have no rage?”

            Daeron was a bit surprised at the implication. He thought on it for a moment. “It isn’t that I feel _nothing_. I’m sad for those who were massacred indiscriminately.”

            “Indi --- hmm?”

            “The Targaryens are gone. My mother died giving birth to me. I think about it every day and miss them even though I never knew them. But there’s nothing I can do.”

            “Coward” Quaro said. Everybody looked at him, Daeron included. Rakharo put out a hand in an attempt to silence him. “If that happen to me, I fight with everything to kill the fuck.”

            Daeron’s eyes narrowed at him before they shifted around the group. “Nooo … no, you wouldn’t. You said it. Khal Drogo killed your father. Yet, he still lives … and he’s right here.”

            Quaro leapt to his feet, cursing in Dothraki. This caused the others, except for Daeron, to shift to an alert position. Quaro yanked loose a dagger hanging from his trousers and leveled it at Daeron. “You call me coward?”

            “No no no no no no” murmured Rakharo with his hands outstretched, creeping closer. “Please. We all friends. Yes?” Rakharo’s focus shifted from Quaro to Daeron.

            Daeron looked at the two of them and sighed. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to imply such a thing … I just want to settle and have a good time.” With a grunt, Daeron finished the horn and pushed himself to his feet. He extended a good hand to Quaro in companionship.

            Quaro took a moment to look at Daeron’s hand. He didn’t shake it but he did lower his dagger and step away to take a seat. Shaken, Daeron carefully sat back down.

           

            Things settled down after that and they went on sharing their experiences, growing more acquainted. In truth, it was Daeron who did most of the sharing for each tale of both Targaryen and his own personal history interested them more and more.

            A while on, the rain came. Thunder boomed in the distance for quite a while prior but as the rain came in, it became a torrential downpour with strong gusts of wind for good measure. The fire was almost immediately put out and Daeron shielded his eyes from the storming winds as Rakharo’s band hastily gathered the belongings they could carry and broke off away from their encampment.

            Rakharo slapped Daeron on the shoulder a couple of times. “We go to nearby ruins! Shelter! Come with us!”

            Daeron nodded eagerly. “I will!”

            Rakharo pointed to a stack of Daeron’s clothes that he had brought with him. They were being drowned in rainwater. “Gather your things! Follow me!”

 

 

            “ _Ah! Hunh!_ ”

            Daeron heard various echoes of pleasure intermingled with pain in the crevices behind him. He dared not look long. He and Rakharo’s band had run giggling like mad through the storm towards the nearest ruinous structure with a roof of some sort. It was already somewhat occupied as the lightning’s occasional light revealed; a squirming mass of bodies engaged in an orgy of disputable consent. Drogo’s outriders and some whom weren’t even that had taken to the local, hopeless women discarded to the accursed land. To his dismay, there was a girl even younger than himself whose whimpers were muffled by a grown man’s hand over her mouth. He tried to leave only to be stopped by Rakharo.

            “I don’t want to be here … with … _that_ ” he told him.  

            “You have roof over head. Do you think this does not happen everywhere else?”

            He knew he was right, of course. Drogo was a savage and a fiend so he knew that in order to survive in his khalasar, one must be one as well. Similar situations likely were happening under all pieces of shelter in the storm.

            Daeron sat with his back on stone near the entrance, trying to ignore the background noise. He watched and listened as Rakharo palmed at Irri, likely aroused by the nearby cries. He leaned into her, trying to kiss her neck. She vehemently protested in Dothraki.

            “I say _no_!” she pushed him away before stepping past him and darting around the corner.

            Rakharo stood apart and watched her leave.

            “Rakharo.” Daeron called out to him, drawing his attention.

            Even in the dark, Daeron’s amethyst-colored eyes were perceptible and in contrast with the darkness. They held the faintest shimmer. “You’re taken with Irri, aren’t you?”

            “T-taken?” Rakharo sounded puzzled.

            “Do you love her?”

            “Love?”

            “Do your people not believe in it?” Daeron wondered if the khal knew love if not for his sister.

            “We Dothraki believe in things we touch. Feel. We use grass. Earth to build. Women to carry seed. Useful things.”

            “But what of your horse god? Can you touch that?”

            “… Horse is heart … of all things. Moon and sun shines on us, lights our way.”

            Daeron nodded, somewhat understanding. “I think I see what you mean. But Love is abstract. You can’t place a value on it. What’s love compared to seed of life in a woman? Any woman will do fine, I imagine.”

            Rakharo paused. “I – don’t understand, prince.”

            Daeron sighed. “I don’t think I do, either. That’s the problem.”  

 

            A while later, Daeron left to relieve himself while Rakharo left to be sure that Irri wasn’t being taken against her will. Daeron found any empty corner of the ruins as he lamented that the various moans and cries weren’t completely drowned out by the rain and thunder. He had to feel around in the dark to find a place, desiring somewhere away from the noise. He closed his eyes and focused himself.

            “Your grace? Is that you?” A masculine voice.

            Daeron stuffed himself back into his trousers and turned around in the darkness. He made out a shadowy figure in the opposite corner though he couldn’t tell his identity.

            “Who goes there?” He was conflicted on whether he should approach or retreat.

            “It is I, Black Bear.”

            _Black Bear_ …

            He heard the unmistakable sound of a steady stream of urine beating off the stone wall. It caught him off guard.

            _…Is that really Black Bear?_

            Daeron simply stood there and waited as it died down.

            Black Bear eventually inquired of Daeron. “How are you, your grace?”

            “I’m fine. I’m fine. Ummm … Black Bear?”

            “Yes, your grace?”

            “Aren’t you a eunuch?”  
            “I am, your grace.”

            “Then … and I humbly apologize … forgive … me if this is too forward but how do you urinate?”

            Black Bear was silent for over ten seconds and Daeron wondered if he had indeed offended him.

            Black Bear eventually approached him, pulling in so close and even though Daeron could barely make out his face, he could feel his presence. Daeron drew back, fearing the Unsullied would hit him.

            “Would you like to see?”

            “Ummm …”

            “Follow me, your grace.”

            The prince could make out that he was leaving though he was reluctant to follow. Somewhat alarmed, he reluctantly followed. They passed what sounded to be some young girl cowering on the ground.

            “Eugggh … hurts … inside …”

            Daeron stumbled as they passed where he and Rakharo had spoken not so long ago and came to the entrance where they could see that the night sky carried an odd moonlight illumination of grey rather than pitch black darkness. They didn’t step outside but seemed to wait at the entrance, using the light so they could see each other clearly. The rain was still torrential despite the new visibility. Some man was standing out in the distance, drenched and unmoving in the rain.

            “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a storm like this” commented Daeron.

            He then looked at Black Bear, silently wishing not to see anything haunting. Black Bear looked at him and reached downwards. Daeron steeled himself, shutting one eye in response.

            Black Bear produced a thin, hollow tube of petrified bone in his fingertips. Daeron opened his eyes and saw this, growing puzzled.

            “I still have a need to urinate. I was given a hole where this will fit. I am not ashamed of this.”

            Perhaps too curious, Daeron reached out for it but Black Bear pulled it away.

            “Ah. It’s not clean, your grace.”

            Embarrassed, Daeron pulled away and apologized.

            “I must make amends, your grace. I apologize for not being there.”

            For a moment, Daeron was going to ask what he meant but it didn’t take long to realize that he simply didn’t want to go into anymore detail about his sister’s horrible ordeal. Daeron himself thought he would resent the Unsullied for his absence but he honestly didn’t even place any blame on Jorah anymore for that matter.

            He sighed. “I place no blame on you, Black Bear. Khal Drogo is my enemy.”

            Black Bear gave the slightest acknowledgment of this and looked out into the storm stoically.

            Daeron studied him for a time. “Have you ever hated anybody?”

            He noticed Black Bear’s right eye twitch. “The Masters.”   

            “Masters?”

            “From before …”

            “Before … Jorah?”

            “… Yes.”

            “They made you unsullied. But what of Jorah? Are you not her slave?”

            That seemed to give him pause. “It is different.”

            “How?”

            “The Masters are unforgiving. Take away identity. Take away everything but absolute obedience and will to live beyond the fight. To Jorah, I am no slave. I am her house guard. Her guardian, protector and knight. I had a low name before, befitting one lower than human. She gives me a strong name with fond memories.”

            Black Bear. Daeron remembered reading that Mormont’s house sigil was that of the bear. He understood that it would have nostalgic significance to somebody exiled from their home like Jorah. 

            “How is she?”

            “Who, your grace? Khaleesi?”

            Daeron smiled and blinked slowly. “No. Jorah.”

            Black Bear swallowed, seeming to think on his answer. “She is restless. She worries for you. Always. She is remorseful.”

            Daeron looked out into the storm. “Will this storm ever let up, I wonder?”

            Black Bear’s eyes followed her as they both just looked out into the rain.

            Eventually, Daeron answered. “Tell her that I’ll be fine.”

 

 

            Even in the storming winds, Drogo as well as his bloodriders and kos were undeterred. They rode out on horseback beyond the ruins towards the encampment with thick-layered skins to wrap themselves. Not his own camp, but instead the encampment of another khal whom was purposely settled nearby; Khal Ogo.

            Several of Ogo’s outriders made themselves seen, calling out threats in Dothraki tongue. Several had bows aimed at the oncoming party.

            “<No closer, intruder dog!>”

            Drogo remained defiant. “<I am Khal Drogo, son of Bharbo! I have come to speak to your khal!>”

            “<The khal knows not of this! Leave or die!>”

            “<I will speak to him!>” Drogo’s group all drew weapons, earning a similar response from Ogo’s outriders.

            “<We have outriders you cannot even see with arrows trained on your heads!>” They told him.

            Drogo laughed. “<They can see through this rain?! You will die long before they loose one!>”

            “<Enough!”> Another Dothraki approached to berate the outriders. He was a lieutenant under Khal Ogo. “<Drogo is a khal! He will not be killed by you unless commanded by Ogo! If you do it, you will not follow him to the Nightlands! A rotten death instead!”> He gave the primary outrider whom had spoken to Drogo a glare before turning his attention to Drogo himself. “<Come, Khal Drogo!>”

            The man turned and led Drogo and his men into Ogo’s camp.

 

            When Drogo came to Ogo’s tent, he was told to wait with his men while Ogo’s lieutenant went inside to ready him for his arrival. Drogo’s men took the time to look over those of Ogo. Qotho himself was smiling and snickering the entire time as he had seen nobody he felt could give any trouble in a fight.

            After some time, Ogo’s lieutenant returned from inside the tent.

            “<Only you. You must leave your weapons.>”

            Pono took offense to this but Drogo reassured him with a simple gesture. Drogo removed his arakh as well as five blades of various sizes from his hips and wrist bands before handing them to his bloodriders. After a moment, he was allowed inside Ogo’s expansive tent where Ogo was waiting inside with four bloodriders on sentry and three naked women sleeping on his bedding. A low-burning brazier was stoked beside the khal to illuminate them and provide warmth.

            Ogo sat cross-legged on carpeted ground while Drogo sat before him on the earth. Ogo’s tent was well sturdy and secure so the ground was moist but not flowing. Ogo offered Drogo spiced wine but he declined.

            “<You have settled on the city of whores.>”

            Drogo nodded simply. “<Yes.>”

            “<Are you a fool?>”

            “<No man survives insulting me.>”

            The sounds of blades scraping sheaths could be heard from Ogo’s bloodriders but he quickly gestured for them to ease their bloodlust. He sighed, weary of Drogo’s passive aggressiveness. He sighed.

            “<Why did you come here?>”

            “<I have placed my camp within a piss stream of yours. Why do you think?”>

            Ogo sighed, shaking his head as he took a gulp from his ruby-encrusted goblet. “<How is your wife? A rider of mine said she is more beautiful than all of mine. I killed him with dishonor.”>

            “<She is unwieldy to tame. I may have broken her.”>

            “<Shameful.”> Ogo took another swig of wine.

            “<She carries my child.”>

            Ogo stopped, lowering his goblet.

            “<Well, she carries _a_ child. >” Drogo gave a shrug.

            Ogo took another drink, shaking his head. “<Has she been before the Crones?>”

            Drogo didn’t even acknowledge the question and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “<I depart.>”

            Ogo set his goblet down on the ground and rose to meet him.

            Khal Drogo extended his right arm out where it interlocked with Khal Ogo’s left arm. They grasped each other’s elbows in a show of respect, farewell and solidarity. “<May we ride together again in the nightlands.>”

            Khal Ogo gave a solemn nod. “<Yes. May we face the Mother of Mountains satisfied.>”

            Drogo stepped away and departed back out into the rain.

 

 

             

 

           

** Jeyne **

 

 

 

 

                        To say Jeyne was surprised at the quality of the meal was an understatement. It still wasn’t up to par with celebratory feasts at the Great Hall of Winterfell but it was better than _some_ meals there and much better than what they had the previous night and even that morning.

            Lamb legs, elk steak, many varieties of chicken and boar parts, fresh steamed cabbage, radish, turnips, boiled greens, carrots, lettuce, tomato, corn, apples, pears, blood oranges, black beans; wines of multiple vintages of better quality than the usual at the Wall including Arbor Gold, sour Dornish red and sweet hippocras; mead as well as beer of many choices as well: pale ales, black, pepper, bitter, fruit, and autumn.

            It was widely known in the hall that Tyrion Lannister had taken it upon himself to send word to the King’s Party to fulfill his request for supplement, which was delivered by a caravan guarded by Lannister house guard. Some were upset, knowing that they would likely never experience something so grand again. They questioned whether Tyrion had done it out of pity or reverence. Either way, he had won many friends that night.

            The Jeynes simply had fresh water in their cups alongside their manageable plates of spiced, shredded chicken breast and assorted vegetables. Ghost ate well, shredding into her thick bowl of meat nearby. Both Jeynes were constantly offered more food, which they both dutifully declined again and again.

            Though close men and well-ranked men such as Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Jaremy Rykker were speaking loudly to him over their cups to have him bend his ear, most of Lord Commander Mormont’s attention were on the girls. They seemed to conduct themselves quite oddly, quietly picking at their food but neither seemed nearly as nervous or fearful as they had previously. He worried for the poor things and didn’t feel completely confident in their safety even with two Stark guards eating on either side of them. He wanted to walk over and say something to them but they were seated quite far away and didn’t want to make a big show of it so he thought it best to leave it. He settled for occasionally looking their way.

            Far off across the hall, Tyrion had taken to standing atop his table with a large mug of mead in his hand as the nearby tables around him cheered and howled him on. They sang bawdy songs of promiscuous ladies and philandering kings and such.

            “Damn Watch forgetting their place” Ser Alliser spat, clearly annoyed. “Some of them are fresh rats as well.”

            “Let ‘em be” said the Lord Commander. “Let ‘em have their fun for the night. They’ve earned it.”

            “The fresh?”

            “They’ll _earn_ it. You’ll make sure of that, won’t you?”

            “Aye.”

            Mormont nodded as he finished his mug of beer and that was the end of it. He waved over the serving boy. “Bring the tankard of gold. I’m in the mood for rich now.”

            “Yes, Lord Commander” the boy nodded and was off.

            Mormont considered Alliser too sour and sharp for his taste at times. There was little warmth to the man. He wondered how he ever raised soldiers to fight for him before being forced to the Wall. The men were fine. They were getting rowdy but they could have their fun as long as they kept from the girls. He allowed the serving boy to pour the Arbor gold in his mug and thanked him for his trouble.

 

            Near the entrance to the hall sat Chrissen Myrth at a near empty table. He drank pepper beer and chewed on barley bread dipped in mutton soup. His back was to the raucous crowd circling Tyrion Lannister.

            “You’re the Stark guardsman, Myrth, ain’t ya?” came a voice from behind.

            Chrissen spun around. Two of them; one a boy and one by and large, a man. The boy wore a black muffler covering the lower half of his face to match his black clothing. Indoors. It immediately made Chrissen think the boy was ugly and trying to hide it. It was likely so because there seemed to be large boils high on his cheeks that were barely visible. The man beside him was medium-sized and wore a black leather tunic and matching pants with a short sword on his hip as well as several daggers and a small but full coinbag; his face was sharp-featured and sun-tanned, his dark hair wet, matted and mid-neck length.

            The man spoke in a gravelly, rough voice. “I be Karl Tanner and the boy’s Chett. Ugly little roach who wouldn’t get a wet whore’s puss with decent coin outside of the Wall.”

            Chett flinched at the name-calling but said nothing.

            “I’ve been watching you, Stark-man” stated Karl plainly.

            “Oh, you have, have ya?” Chrissen was amused, sucking his fingers and thumb dry of the mutton soup.

            “You have no love lost for the Stark girls and from all accounts you’ve had distasteful words at each other.”

            “Aye, I don’t deny the bastard could learn a girl’s place.”

            “Well, by all means, let us teach her for you. A girl like that could do with a man’s touch.”

            “A man’s cock, you mean?”

            “Gods, yes.”

            Chrissen smiled and looked to Chett. “The same for you, boy? You agree to this?”

            The boy had seemed to try to put up a hard front earlier but seemed nervous when he spoke. “Y-yes.”

            Karl laid it out. “All ya need to do is figure out what to do with the other guard and let us inside. We’ll keep ’em nice and quiet.”

            Chrissen’s smile grew wider. “Pokes all around, eh? Poke, poke, poke. I assume you have good coin for me, hm?”

            “Yes, yes.” Karl patted his coinbag, hanging from his hip opposite his daggers.

            “This be fine.” Chrissen said, crossing his arms and nodding his head. “I hate that bastard bitch.”

            They shared small chuckles at that.

            “Only one thing, though” Chrissen said, cranking his neck. “I’ve been a bit … fired myself, lately. Coin might not be good enough. I could use a good fuck, myself.”

            “Fine, fine.” Karl said. “You’re free to cock them too.”

            “Oh, not from them. From you.”

            Karl’s smile faded. “What’s this? Ya being funny?”

            Chrissen’s smile grew even wider somehow. “Oh, no. Don’t let my smile fool you; I hate a joke. I’m strictly a bugger, though. Not a poof. But don’t worry, you needn’t worry about my thick sword busting ya browns. Nah. I’ll do ya arses proper with my second cock.”

            He unsheathed his own dagger and slammed its blade into the table next to his food, causing it to be embedded hilt up. “So what do ya say? A fuck for a fuck? I’ll make it good, I promise.”

            Chett, swayed, simply walked away without another word. Lines formed over Karl’s brow and his face’s shade deepened as he was growing angry. Karl looked around warily, not wanting to kill in sight of the commanders.

            “Have it your way, Stark-man. This isn’t finished.”

            “I hope not. I’ve watched you, too, Karl Tanner. That arse could use a good _fucking_.”

            Karl turned and stormed off. Chrissen picked up his mug of beer and gulped it down, watching him go.

 

            Ossard tore into a large chicken leg like a starved dog, gnawing at the mass of meat like a dog. Jeyne Poole watched him, smirking and turned away suddenly, stifling a laugh when he looked upon her.

            “What are two so quiet for? And why are you acting like this is some royal engagement?” He questioned them with chicken in his mouth still.

            “Whatever do you mean, ser?” Jeyne Poole asked him, still smirking. Snow elbowed her in the side and the two stifled their laughter horribly.

            “I ain’t no ser, miss!” He said, spitting small chunks of chicken as he did so.

            Poole winced away from him, trying not to get hit.

            “Clearly!” chided Snow and the two girls gave each other smiling looks at that.

            “Yeah, yeah” Ossard muttered. “Go on, enjoy ya’selves at my expense.”

            Behind them, the rowdy jeers intensified only to gradually soften, giving way to a few string chords being plucked clumsily at first.

            Jeyne froze and her heart sank. That sound. Then came soft but insistent melody of a woodharp finely tuned. Some might’ve likened to the gods breathing in the wind. To her it might as well have been the hiss of the Others.

            “ _Lalalalalalalalala_!” sang a talented male voice multiple times in different pitches and octaves to the cheers of some.

            Jeyne Poole half-turned in her seat. “To think of it! They have a harp player!”

            Snow pulled her back around and spoke to her harshly without turning around herself. “Jeyne! Conduct yourself!”  
           

She was puzzled. “My lady, don’t you love the harp?”

            To her dismay, the melody seemed to be growing closer. _It’s not my melody. Not my Night That Ended_. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that she was back in the forest that seemed to be darkly magical playing to an audience of the apparent dead. She looked down at her hands, one of which she had covered with an embroidery cloth for fear that she would rip it open again. _The pain was terrible. It was so real for a moment. But it never happened just like my hands aren’t rotten black. I was never in those strange woods. Never_.   

            Poole turned her head, despite what Snow said. “Ah, he’s coming, my lady! He’s so handsome!”

            Jeyne ignored her and turned to Tomas beside her. “I need more water.”

            “Serving Boy!” yelled Tomas, gesturing him over. “Bring the water tankard!”

            “Ah, what does _Lover_ want?” lamented Ser Alliser.

            “Who’s this lad again?” the Lord Commander asked.

            “Oh, a prissy one” came Ser Alliser. “Dareon, his name is but he act like it’s Lover. Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. Or bloody. He’s taken his share of lumps already. I made sure he got more.”

            That didn’t seem to deter him. To Jeyne’s dismay, the singing voice sound it came from mere feet behind her.

 

            _I once met a beauty, her eyes housed the stars_

_Though she carried many wounds, scar upon scar_

_I told her I could guard her, I know a secret place_

_So I took her hand in mine, we both flew away_

            Indeed, Dareon sung the words as he approached the table occupied by the Lord Commander himself, his lieutenants and the girls under his protection. His voice was sweet honey and just as viscous, able to shift, change shape and spill lovingly from one line to the next. His fingers were just as skilled, producing wondrous sound between lines, adding context and backdrop to the tale he painted.

            He settled just behind and to the left of Jeyne, ending his song after a final outro. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, refusing to look in his direction. Poole again whispered that he was so handsome as if she didn’t hear her the first time.

 

            “A fine tune, Lover boy” said Alliser, clapping heavily and mockingly with no actual joy to him.

            “Thank you, kind ser” Dareon said with a dip of his head. “I live to entertain.” He betrayed several glances to the girls.

            “ _No_ ” Ser Alliser denied, “you live to die fighting. I’ve seen better diddling from shit-stained fools.” Poole made a show of gasping at this though Snow was too distracted. “Leave us be.”

            “Now, now. “, soothed Mormont. “It was fine music, Dareon.”

            Dareon dipped his head. “Thank you, Lord Commander.”

            “I hope you take to the sword as well as to the harp” Mormont offered. “If you did, you’d be our finest sword here at Castle Black.”

            Dareon smiled and bowed again with glee. “I humbly accept your compliment, Lord Commander. With Ser Alliser’s guidance, I aim to be.”

            Ser Alliser turned to his cup with a huff.

            Dareon turned to the girls. “And how did you enjoy it, my ladies?”

            Poole’s face grew rose red and stared right at him without saying a word though her mouth was open to do so.

            “Hah!” blurted Ser Alliser. “They be no _ladies_. That one there is a bastard Stark from the North, Snow, and the other be her servant girl.”

            Poole was mortified, frozen. The Lord Commander gave him a hard glare that he paid no heed.

            “With all respects, ser, they appear fine ladies to me.” Poole melted in her seat at Dareon’s response.

            Flustered, Poole offered her comment. “I-it was a splendid song and performance. May I ask, where is it from? I don’t believe I’ve heard it before.”

            “That is because I wrote it myself” Dareon said in a light manner of boasting. “I dabble in song craft though I can’t say I’m more than serviceable talent, I’m afraid.”

            “Nonsense, it was marvelous.”

            “Why thank you, my lady” he said with a bow. “As high ladies yourselves, I’m sure you’ve played music. Do you enjoy the harp?”

            “Oh, I’m no great at it myself” replied Poole before looking to Snow. “My lady Jeyne however, was always one of the better harp players and singers I’ve ever heard.”

            “Is that so?” Dareon looked directly at Snow. “I’d be honored to hear your comments then, my lady, if you’d be so kind.”

            Still barely able to look at him though she turned her head in his general direction, Jeyne gave her comment quietly but well loud enough to hear. “Please leave.”

            Ser Alliser barely contained a snicker. The serving boy arrived, brushing Dareon in the shoulder. Tomas directed him to fill Jeyne’s cup whom reached for it shakily. She hoped nobody noticed.

            Dareon was flustered. Jeyne snatched her cup of water off of the table and began drinking it. “I-I beg your pardon, my lady.”

            “You heard the bastard girl.” Ser Alliser waved him off. “Bugger off now.”

            Flustered, Dareon managed a bow somehow to the collective table. “I take my leave. Have a good evening, Lord Commander. Sers. Good men. Ladies.”

            Dareon turned, plucking a few fine chords before producing another sweet melody as he left. Poole gave Snow a concerned look as she drank her water.

 

            Later on, as the music died down and brothers began to file out of the Common Hall to the barracks, Jeyne saw fit to take another ride on the lift to the top of the Wall. She worried for her uncle but she also continued to feel the wonder of the Wall itself. Peering from its top reminded her that the world was bigger than the Seven Kingdoms despite what some would’ve had her believe in Winterfell. Bigger than the civilized society that had made her an outcast for her birth.

            Ossard and Ghost accompanied her. When the lift reached its peak, Ossard opened the door for her.

            “I’ll have you wait here, Ossard.”

            He nodded. “Aye. I thought s’much.”

            With a parting look, she threw her cowl over her head and started down the archway towards the battlements with Ghost at her heels. At end of the main archway, she came across an opening that was occupied with a brazier and found a peculiar figure standing between the first battlements. It was some woman wearing a dark dress, cloak over her shoulders and a cowl very much like hers. Jeyne braced an arm on the wooden wall beside herself.

            The woman turned her familiar face towards Jeyne. _By Gods! It looks like me!_ She indeed did appear completely identical to her save for the eyes, which carried an unnatural, blue shimmer instead of her own dark grey. The wind caused the doppelganger’s dark, bunched curls to sway over her face even beneath the cowl. The figure then turned away and stepped off of the edge of the Wall, disappearing from sight. Ghost took an aggressive posture, sensing a threat to her human.

            She rubbed her temples and clenched her eyes shut. She turned and rested her head against the wall. “No, no, no.” she muttered. _Impossible_. _Why is this happening? No, it doesn’t matter_. _It’s only my delusions. Brought on by worry for uncle Benjen and my missing of father. A good night’s sleep should cure it._

            “If you’re going to fidget around back there, could you be quieter about it.” Tyrion called back to her. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

            Jeyne opened her eyes and looked at the battlements again. It wasn’t her doppelganger standing atop the Wall but Tyrion Lannister standing quite oddly, in fact.

            “I’ve been up here for quite some time” he went on. “It’s quite cold, you know? Though you would think that with all the wine and mead I drank that- oh, here we go!”

            Jeyne wondered what had happened for a moment and realized from the way he seemed to be standing. He had told her he wanted to piss from the Wall. _Was he actually doing it?_

            “You were _serious_?” She turned away.

            “I know what most must say about Lannisters!” he shouted into the wind. “But I prefer to keep my lies to a minimum!”

            “This is most unbecoming, my lord!” Jeyne shouted over her shoulders.

            “Yet, you choose to stand there!” Tyrion shouted back. “And I was here first!”

            Jeyne almost laughed.

            Eventually, Tyrion finished and tied his trouser’s drawstrings shut once again. He spoke over his shoulder before turning to her and stepping down from the battlement. “I see you’ve taken my advice to be a true lady to that girl. Good. I knew there was a brain in there somewhere, Stark as you are.”

            Jeyne ventured a look back. “How-?”

            “How did I manage to find the time between all my drinking and singing? We Lannisters are skillful multi-taskers. I saw you and your demeanor well. A woman’s armor. A fine idea. Wear it well, Snow.”

            Jeyne turned towards him in full. “I did make some modifications to your suggestion. My special quality.”

            Tyrion smiled at that. He ventured a step towards Ghost and became interested when she didn’t snarl at him. He ventured a touch of her head and chuckled when she seemed receptive to his touch.

            “She likes you” Jeyne commented. “She warms up to good men.”

            Tyrion’s smile soured somewhat. “Well, I never claimed to be _that_.” He looked up at her again. “Whatever are you doing up here?”

            Jeyne crossed her arms, hugging her coat tighter to herself. She looked out into the distance past the Wall and gave a wistful smile.

            “Your uncle” Tyrion said with sympathy.

            “Yes, of course I worry for Uncle Benjen with each passing second but …” She left the idea hanging, unable to find an adequate way to express her feelings.

            Tyrion shook his head. “Girl, don’t tell me you actually _like_ this place.”

            She sighed. “I know the men are less than chivalrous; the upkeep is meager and the motivations are shaky but the purpose is still a noble one.” She moved to the station archway and beat on the ice above the wood to make a show of it. “Ice and stone; that is what the Wall is made of and more ice than stone! Yet, the Wall has stood defiant for thousands of years! The Andals came with the Seven; The Rhoynar went to Dorne; Aegon the Conqueror and the Targaryens have come and gone. Cataclysms; horrible, horrible events have been wrought on this continent and the world at large, yet this place has stood through it _all_! The Wall has protected this realm for all that time and it hasn’t failed us once! And this!”

            Somewhat at a loss for words, Tyrion gave an uncomfortable cough. “I … see you’ve done some fair research into this …”

            She walked past both Tyrion and Ghost and stood up between the battlements. She felt a jolt of fear surge through her at such sudden closeness to the edge but she found she quite liked it. The chill of the wind was welcome. Her own curls danced about her face, much like those of her doppelganger. “Some call this the End of the World. Look out there. Does that look like the end to you? Nobody really knows what’s out there. Nobody bothers to ask the wildlings. It could stretch out leagues and leagues farther than the known world. When I was a little girl, I heard tales of giant bears, spiders, mammoths, giants and the Others. It could all be true. Isn’t that significant?”

            Tyrion gave some pause before standing up from Ghost. “You’re an odd one, Jeyne. I think I’ll turn in. I’m set to begin my journey back to King’s Landing alongside Yoren and some of your black brothers. He thinks he can find actual good men to make for the Wall. Fat chance of that. Two nights in and I’ve already wrung out all the fun out of this place I think possible.”

            Jeyne stepped down from the battlements towards him. “You’ll take the kingsroad back?”

            “Until I find a better, safer route.”

            “So you’ll pass through Winterfell?”

            “Of course.”

            “If you see my brother, Bran, tell him I love him and wish him well. Tell him I am well and will see him as soon as possible. Also, if you please, give my love to Robb as well as to Arya and Lord Stark in King’s Landing. And Sansa; please tell Sansa I love and miss her as well. Please.”

            “Perhaps you would like me to treat with your lord father and ask that he permit you to return to Winterfell?”

            She tried to imagine a Winterfell without her father to still Lady Catelyn’s hand. There was also another feeling that she should stay. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

            Tyrion nodded. “Very well. I will do all that you ask gladly.”

            “Thank you, my lord.”

            He stepped forth and offered his hand. “I am no lord.”

            Jeyne looked down at his hand distastefully, puzzling Tyrion for a spell. After a moment, he realized and poured some wine over his hands from a canteen on his hip before wiping it dry two times over on his fur. Jeyne was satisfied for it was better than made water.

            Jeyne took his hand and shook it steadily on their second attempt. “All the same.”

            Tyrion stepped away before patting Ghost on the head. “Ghost. Both of you take care of yourselves. I would like to see you again since I find you quite interesting … for a bastard.”

            It didn’t affect her quite the same anymore. Maybe she had taken his advice and hardened herself to it. “I thank you for your advice and wish you good health. You _are_ brilliant and quite clever … for an imp.”

            Tyrion froze for a moment and Jeyne worried that she had offended him. Then, he began to laugh and she relaxed, chuckling herself.

            “Now you’re learning.” He said, giving one last wave before parting for the lift.

            Jeyne turned around and looked out beyond the Wall. Lights out in the distance like fireflies in the night. _Yes, man lives out there just like this side of the Wall. Surely some of them must be good. Either way, please be safe, uncle._

            She turned and began walking alongside the battlements.

            “Come, Ghost” she called back to her. “Let’s see who’s on watch tonight.”

            The faithful direwolf bounded up and fell in step alongside her human.

 

           

 

** Daeron **

****

****

             

 

            Daeron stirred awake in a dazed condition. He had used a sack of his belongings as a pillow as he slept on the damp stone floor. It was wet and cold and he slept uneasy, waking up too many times in the night. Still, it was better than sleeping in the rain.

            Two Dothraki outriders stood over him, he realized as his vision refocused and he became aware of his surroundings.

            “Khal Drogo wants to speak” one said in Common Tongue. “You come with us.”

            Daeron stirred. “Wait …”

            They reached down and yanked him by his arms. The pain to his injured right arm woke him immediately.

            They half-dragged him and half-pushed through the muck away from Drogo’s encampment. Daeron didn’t understand why they were going in that direction and asked the outriders several times about that very thing. They never answered. Eventually, they didn’t need to; he could hear the screams and see the plume of smoke eventually. Many Dothraki bodies and horse carcasses were strewn about in the field, some being piled into wooden carts and drawn by horses themselves. It was clear that there had been a battle early that morning. Young children, boys and girls ran through the muck with quivers on their backs. They seemed to pulling reusable arrows from the bodies of the dead, breaking and discarding them if they were too broken to be used. He felt saddened at seeing a little girl who looked six, struggling to wrench an arrow from a man’s skull and giving little grunts to do so. Flanking them were large men, carrying greataxes to finish off struggling survivors. He heard the cries of dozen or so men hoping to hide among the dead only to be found by the skilled hunters and cleaved painfully to death and not quickly more often than not.

            Daeron was surprised to see what seemed to be Drogo’s riders in the midst of another Dothraki camp binding young children, boys and girls, as well as women and taking them away from the camp. More of the large men with axes hacked and chopped at the injured men and elderly they didn’t care to enslave. Daeron was still confused as what had happened. He turned his head at the sight of a sickly old woman being hacked multiple times in the back of the neck.

            “What is this?” Daeron asked the riders.

            “ _Move_!” one told him, pushing him in the back.

            As he continued through the slosh, he saw that the riders were tearing down tents and some had taken to raping the girls. One girl whom was taken roughly from behind was soaked and caked in mud and blood. What struck Daeron was how loud she wailed and how small she was. _Gods_ , he thought. _Is she any older than ten?_

            He couldn’t stand to see it and started for her. The riders immediately stopped him and dragged him not without little effort through the mud.

            “No, damn you! Let me go!”

 

            Visenya sat in an elevated, velvet high chair that previously belonged to Khal Ogo and his wife most high. She was clean and free of any mud. She watched as Drogo’s riders slashed dying men and dumped their bodies in stinking piles; women and young girls were raped, some of them killed if they struggled too much; treasures and valuables such as clothes and weapons were plundered; tents were set ablaze, sometimes with the people still inside. The whole place was beginning to smell foul; spoiled blood, burning shit and rotten meat. A rotten hell right there on earth, at her feet. None of it touched her and she watched it alongside her standing handmaidens; Doreah, Irri and Jhiqui as well as Jorah Mormont and her slave knight, Black Bear. They all seemed shaken and disturbed by the atrocities but Visenya herself was unaffected. She had long ago found a way to escape within herself yet retain an outward presence of mind. It was both a gift and a curse.

            Beside her high seat was a wide chest containing her dragon eggs; like her, they were elevated on stands away from the mud. She knew they were no dragons but she still felt somewhat of an affinity with them and they provided her some small comfort against her current surroundings.    

            Drogo himself was nearby as his closest men brought forth Khal Ogo’s harem of wives and lovers, all seven of them. He held out Ogo’s head and detached braid before them proudly, making them gasp. He discarded the head and braid into the nearby pile of corpses before pulling his own uncut braid over his shoulder and in front of his body. He flicked some of the bells near its tailend. “<I promised your khal an honorable rest facing the Mother of Mountains. But he promised glorious battle. He failed his promise so I in turn fail mine. He will stink with the others.”>

            “<Hmm. Some of you are new.>” He looked at the women, in truth. “<You are all mine now.>”

            He had all of the women inspected, several of which he did himself. He checked their open mouths for present tongues and count of teeth; their fingers and toes for any missing or deformities; gripped their breasts and buttocks for firmness or fat; and roughly shoved fingers into orifices for pleasure ability. He kept the two finest for himself, shoving them towards his bloodriders; he allowed his riders to take the remaining five to be used immediately if they wished.

            “Daeron …” murmured Visenya upon seeing two riders lead Daeron into camp before her.

            “Sister … what is the meaning of this?”

            “I …” she turned her head in Drogo’s direction, whom turned and approached the young prince. She wasn’t quite sure herself. Drogo strode right to Daeron before striking him across the face with the back of his left hand. Visenya and her entire retinue flinched at the sight. Daeron was dazed immediately and thrown backwards by the blow; it felt like he ran into a swinging wooden door. He fell backwards into the riders behind him, whom pushed him right back into Drogo, who in turn caught him by the throat with a solitary right hand. Daeron’s eyes bulged as Drogo squeezed, catching his breath in his throat and threatening to collapse his windpipe. Daeron’s hands gripped Drogo’s wrist and forearm, alternating between struggling to wrench his hand away, and clenching open and closed apart from him.

            Visenya stood from her high chair. “<My husband! Release him, please!>”

            Daeron had been losing consciousness and going limp when Drogo finally let go. Daeron collapsed to his knees, bracing himself with his good arm. He coughed violently, trying to pull air back to lungs and rubbed his throat.

            Drogo did nothing for a time and watched him regain himself. “You did not fight, king” he said down to him.

            Daeron coughed a bit longer before choking out, “What do you mean?”

            Drogo scoffed and walked away, causing Daeron to look up after him.

            “You miss! _Greeaat_ battle! Many men die! Many men scar.”

            Drogo turned and spoke to Jorah in harsh Dothraki language.

            Jorah sighed before calling out to Daeron, “He says it is … unjust that his men die and suffer while you have not fought.”

            Daeron struggled to regain himself. “I-I don’t understand. I wasn’t aware of any battle!”

            Drogo spoke to Jorah.

            Jorah clenched her eyes shut and had some reluctance in her voice, which drew Visenya’s attention. “ _He said_ it doesn’t matter! You are his warrior!”

            Daeron struggled to push himself to his feet. “I … don’t see how it is even possible. Jorah … my arm …”

            Jorah shook her head. “My prince … he doesn’t care. He says it isn’t right that so many of his many of his men carry scars and you do not …”

            As she spoke, Drogo moved over near one of the tents and retrieved a short whip with separated tails. He walked over to his bloodriders. Daeron’s eyes followed his movements.

            “… this is dishonorable, he says” Jorah went on. “He will honor you.”

            Drogo smirked right at Daeron as he handed the whip to Qotho. Qotho could barely contain his glee. Daeron turned and tried to get past the riders behind him but they turned and pushed him back to the ground.

            By the time Daeron raised himself from the muck, Qotho was already before him, rearing back to strike. He slashed him from the left, cutting the upper portion of his ear as well as the upper part of his head. Daeron rocked violently to the right and he felt an equal intense cutting pain and pressure in his head accompanied by a strong tinnitus. He fell onto his right side, writhing and clutching his head in the mud. Blood from an open wound was already beginning to dye his hair red. When he couldn’t feel the sting of the open air on his scalp, he felt a cool slickness that was somehow pleasant.

            “Not in the head!” Visenya shouted from her place. She looked to Drogo, repeating herself. “Tell him! Not in the head!”

            Drogo gave her a brief acknowledgement of a side glance and sighed. “<Avoid the princess’s head, blood of my blood!>”

            Daeron placed the fingers of his left hand in front of his eyes. His vision was so blurred he couldn’t even make them out at first; when he finally could, he could see that they were dripping with his own blood. He quickly lost sight of this when Qotho whipped him in the left arm, causing him to cry out as he quickly gave several more lashes to his arm and then his leg and buttock. Drogo’s host and riders whom had gathered to take part in the pillage of Ogo’s encampment; all stopped to watch as Qotho continuously struck the silver-haired prince in the mud, forcing him to turn on his front side and allow him to unleash hell upon his back.

            Qotho brought down the heavy whip down repeatedly from shoulder blades to just above the buttocks. The short whip had the sharp tails that sliced and cut like a longer whip but because he had to bring the entire instrument down on Daeron to use it effectively, he used the thick leather interior rope within the tails in its attack as well. So, Daeron was being cut and hit with a blunt object simultaneously in one wound wherever Qotho chose to strike; except for his head because Khaleesi forbade it. His first few strikes brought forceful screams from the prince but after a while, he just gritted his teeth and grunted as he became able steel himself through the pain somewhat. His wounds were already quite open and ruined. He brought the whip down furiously on Daeron’s back twice more before Drogo called for an end.

            “<Enough!>”

            Qotho looked back at his khal, snickering as he had raised the whip high for another strike. Drogo held out a hand expectantly and Qotho returned the whip to him, giving Daeron a parting glare as he departed. Daeron, shaken on the ground, looked up and around; to his dismay, he realized that Rakharo, Quaro, Aggo and Jhogo were present. He turned his eyes back to the ground, shifting about and hissing from the stinging pain all over his body. His entire body was convulsing and screaming internally at him.

            Drogo turned to his wife. “<Moon of my life.>” He held the whip out to her.

            Visenya turned and looked at the whip in his hand. “<My sun and stars …>”

            “<You are khaleesi. You carry my son. This boy … has disobeyed us. He dishonors you. Punish him.>”

            “Surely, he has been punished enough?”

            “You must. Do … you … disobey me? Again?”

            Shaken, Visenya crept closer to him and shakily took the whip from Drogo’s hand. She looked down. She had been forced to step into the mud, ruining the bottom of her golden dress; she could feel the mud and water wash over her feet as she wore open-toed, heeled boots.

            “Khaleesi …” Jorah called out to her.

            “You be silent!” she snapped back. She looked out on her younger brother’s beaten form, shaking and miserable in the mud. She went to him, whip in hand.

            He saw the muddied skirts of her outer dress first, before straining to look up at her. His cheeks were wet with tears; his left eye was bloodshot and blood was smeared on the left side of his face as well as throughout his hair.

            Her grip tightened on the hanging whip in her hand. “Don’t … Don’t look at me like that. This is _your_ fault. Look away! Look away, damn you!” He could see that her eyes had watered and droplets of tears were beginning to slip down her cheeks. Her lips were quivering as she spoke.

            He reluctantly lowered his head, shaking already.

            She hesitated, but he felt the sting and brunt force of her strike all the same. They were nearly as hard as Qotho’s; she was angry and distressed. He tried his hardest to betray no reaction to her assault, biting his right hand so hard that he left deep marks.

            “<Enough, moon of my life!>” Khal Drogo called it to an end. She had hit Daeron once more before she realized he had called to her. “<Return to me!”>

            In a daze, she did so. “<Take him out of my sight!>” He said to nobody in particular.

            Jorah looked to Black Bear and pointedly nodded in Daeron’s direction. So, he went to gather the young prince.

            “Come now, your grace” Black Bear whispered to Daeron as he helped the struggling prince to his feet.

            Daeron’s eyes immediately went to a noticeable short sword, much shorter than a standard soldier’s blade but too long to be considered a dagger. Using his good hand as primary though he need to use both, he grabbed the sword’s handle and ripped upwards. He simultaneously rammed his shoulder into Black Bear’s chest and midsection using his entire body weight with momentum. Caught vulnerable, he was knocked right off of his feet while Daeron was able to wrench the short sword free, pulling and shredding Black Bear’s belt with it.

            Daeron frantically scrambled to his feet, taking the sword in left hand, shuffling away from Black Bear’s grasp. It wasn’t easy. _Everything_ hurt; the only muscles that didn’t feel torn or abused were in his legs. Even with his legs mostly fine, his back and especially his spine were racked with pain making coordinated movement difficult. He couldn’t so much as run as much as give a speedy scamper for Drogo but that what was exactly what he did. Drogo turned to face him, leaving himself wide open for attack. Daeron’s singular focus was on him entirely.

            Qotho slammed bodily into Daeron, knocking the blade from his hand and sending him tumbling in the muck away from Drogo and Visenya. Daeron rolled several times before sliding to a halt on his back.

            Qotho pulled his _arakh_ from his waist, effortlessly twirling it by its handle in his right hand. “ <You suffer and die now, bitch.>”

            Daeron’s entire body was screaming at him in agony. He was shaking then, struggling to sit up even partially on the good elbow to watch Qotho just as he was about to sprint for the prince.

            “<No!”> Drogo said, moving beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “<I will face him.>” 

            “<He is unworthy!”>

            “<I will do it. Leave.>”

            Qotho moved back to the other bloodriders with a dissatisfied grunt. Daeron watched and grunted as he struggled to lift himself up more as Drogo stepped over to the blade between the two of them. He looked it over, running fingers along its edge and tip as well as its weight. He held it by the blade, balancing it with its grip facing Daeron.

            In Common Tongue Drogo spoke to the prince, “You wish to pierce me, King. Try this.”

            He tossed the blade, causing it to land at Daeron’s feet.

            “Try this.”

            “Noooo!” shouted his sister, the Khaleesi drawing the attention of most of those gathered temporarily. “Daeron! You beg for forgiveness! Right now! Beg for forgiveness! Plead for Mercy!”

            “She’s right!” yelled Jorah, not crazed like his sister and steady but negative all the same. “Don’t get up! My prince, you can barely stand! You’re a wounded, untrained child and he’s horselord who’s killed before the age of ten! You cannot win!”

            “Sister … Jorah … shut up.” He silenced them with his oddly strong yet even command. With effort, he pulled himself circularly onto his belly and gripped the sword before him. “I’m not afraid of you.” Turning the point downwards and pressing into the earth, he pushed himself first onto his knees before raising onto his shaky feet. “Do you understand _that_ , khal? I’m not afraid of you!”

            Ignoring all of the pain in his body, Daeron made a mad dash for the horselord. Only able to swing one arm freely, he swung horizontally in front of his chest from right to left, covering a wide area. Drogo was able to leap to the rear and strafe around him, dodging not only his first attack but also his second attempt as well; which was naturally a horizontal slash. Daeron stumbled a bit and found his strength waning and the pain returning but still, he willed himself to follow.

            Carefully, he made his way to the savage. A forceful stab; a swipe for his neck that would have drained his body; a turning, horizontal cleave that would halved his body with a greatsword. Somehow, Drogo managed a way to avoid them all with little effort. For all his size, Drogo was swift and almost supernaturally agile. He was six and a half feet tall; Daeron couldn’t understand how he could duck his blade so well. Drogo still had yet to arm himself; the many bells in his braid rung incessantly with each movement, reminding him of his failures. He wanted to rage. His body screamed for him; his head throbbed and rang; the crowd around him, _Drogo’s_ riders, had taken to cheering and shouting their war cries as loud as possible while cursing _him_. He wasn’t seeing very well anymore; he could hardly think. He couldn’t focus at all; the only thing he knew was that he was hurting. He was hurting and he wanted Drogo to hurt too. Hurt and die.

            After taking some time to wipe away some blood from around his left eye, he started again for Drogo. This time, he brought the sword downwards from a vertical stance, using his injured arm for support as well. Drogo, eager to prove the boy was weak once again, held his ground. He caught his hands by the wrists, holding the short sword above Daeron’s head and away from his own face. The sword shook in their collective grasp; Daeron felt Drogo’s immense strength. He felt a pressure on his wrists, feeling his bones grind within as well as those of his shoulders.

            “You are like your sister” Drogo said to him. “Pretty but weak!”

            “Go to hell!”

            Drogo threw Daeron’s arms backwards and knocked him off-balance. He reached out and raked his knuckles against the left side of Daeron’s head, striking his torn ear and the open gash in his head. An explosion of pressure and pain went off in the prince’s head and he fell to one knee, his grip loosening on the sword. He clutched his head on that side, whimpering and sobbing despite himself.

            When Drogo approached him to strike him again, Daeron lashed out blindly. Drogo recoiled at the minor yet sharp bite. There was a minor grasp and murmurs from the crowd. Even Visenya and his bloodriders were caught off-guard. Drogo looked down at himself; Daeron’s sword had slashed Drogo from his right bicep to his mid-chest; it wasn’t terribly deep and wasn’t hampering but he was bleeding pretty well. It had ruined his right nipple, leaving a hanging flap of skin with it attached. He exhaled deeply and craned his neck, causing his neck and shoulders to crack.

            When Daeron raised his blade again, Drogo lunged forward and kicked him in the hand, knocking it from his grasp. He then clutched Daeron by the head; he then shifted his clutch to his long, muddied and bloodied hair.

            “Aaa-aaaa!” shouted Daeron as Drogo drug him backwards by his locks, for a moment having him leave the ground before spinning and flinging him down on his stomach. Daeron shifted uneasily on the ground before Drogo clutched him by his injured arm, yanking him to his feet. Daeron screamed out, struggling feebly but he stood all the same; Drogo bodily lifted him by the same arm. Daeron’s screams reached a higher level as Drogo held him off of his feet for a moment or two before flinging him away. Having torn away the young prince’s splint from his arm, he tossed it aside carelessly. He gripped and twisted away the hanging flesh on his chest that used to be his nipple, exposing the bloody flesh underneath.

            “Aaaaggggh!” Daeron continuously screamed from the ground, rolling and writhing in pain as he clutched his re-broken arm. Not only had he been held aloft by it, thrown by it but he had also rolled over it as he landed on the ground. He had never felt a more excruciating pain even when it was originally broken. He pounded on the ground angrily multiple times, trying to fight through the worst of it. Tears formed in Visenya’s eyes, for as complicated as her feelings for him were, she hated seeing him like that. Jorah, herself, wanted nothing more than to stab Drogo in the heart and take Daeron away from that. When she began to move forward, Qotho moved for her and she recognized that he would cut her down if she advanced too far so she held her place. _Forgive me, your grace_ she thought.

            Drogo finally freed the _arakh_ from his hip and flung the short sword back to the Dragonling prince. He could have gone over and hacked him away to nothing but he wasn’t in the mood for that. He wished to snuff every bit of hope from the boy who dare dream of attacking him. If he could no longer move, he would take his head painfully but he wished to see if he could first.

            Daeron had never before felt more pain; sharp, searing internal pain as the bone was dislodged near the elbow yet again. His screams turned into moans as he rolled on the ground. His eyes happened to cast upward in his movements to fall on the blade. It was two feet in front of him but it may as well have been across the narrow sea. Beyond that, Drogo was crouched at the knees, _arakh_ at the ready. Whatever part of his mind wasn’t focused on warding off the pain burned for the damned khal. To the left of him were the open chest; Visenya’s stone eggs. _True dragons_.

            He strained, producing a long, grit-toothed groan. He fought with every bit of energy he had left to push himself into a crawling position though his own body fought him the entire way. It screamed a warning at him. _You must stop! We can’t go on!_ He didn’t heed it. He dragged himself towards the blade, grunting loudly the entire time. The pain in his torn body intensified to a breaking point multiple times, causing him to pause and cry out but went on when it ebbed back to a tolerable level. Again, he reached the sword and dragged it to himself; pushing his fist into the mud, he slowly rose to one knee. Tears streamed down his face and he groaned incessantly through gritting teeth as he slowly stood, shaking the entire time. He instinctively drew his injured arm tight to his body, ignoring the throbbing pain as constant as a heartbeat and steadying the blade out in front of him.

            “The King _rises_ ” Drogo said simply, rising to his feet as he started for Daeron.

            Daeron stumbled forward, intending to make a final effort. Painful jolts from his back and arm, caused the prince to freeze momentarily and almost fall on his face. Drogo, as graceful as a royal dancer, spun about Daeron’s right flank before pausing to catch his blade between the young boy’s thighs, pressing to his left. A second spin in the opposite direction ripped blood and flesh from Daeron’s left mid-thigh from the front all the way to the back just beneath his buttocks. Daeron gave a pained scream, losing his footing and slipping to his knees. Drogo came back around and drove a forceful forearm to the back of his head and knocked him flat to the ground.

            He put a knee to Daeron’s mid back and yanked his head upwards by a fistful of his hair, painfully stretching him and causing him to wince. Daeron felt the circular edge of Drogo’s _arakh_ slightly cutting into his throat. A trickle of his blood slipped over its blade. He held his breath, resigning himself to his death.

            “Wait!” shouted Visenya stepping forth from her watching place towards the two. She was near immediately caught and held in place by Cohollo and Haggo. She struggled with them briefly. “I am Khaleesi! Unhand me!”

            The distraction was enough to distract Drogo from ending Daeron. “<What is it, Moon of my life?>” He still held the blade to Daeron’s throat however.

            Still giving a slight struggle against the bloodriders, she pleaded. <”Please spare my brother! He is my blood! I’ll send him away! Make him submissive! Whatever you wish!”> She went on in Common Tongue. “Please … don’t kill my _son_!” She gave a small gasp and went mum as if being caught telling a secret.

            “Visenya …” Daeron murmured as Drogo removed his arakh and stepped away from him, allowing his head and neck to rest.

            Drogo walked out in front of him, facing Visenya and his men. “<Leave her.>”

Cohollo and Haggo released her, allowing her to almost run to Daeron. Drogo halted her with his free arm, yanking her into an embrace. He wrapped his arms around her snugly yet gently. It was the gentlest he had ever been to her physically up to that point though she still slightly recoiled when she felt the wet flesh of his open chest wound rub against her cheek.

“Beautiful” he whispered in Common Tongue before he leaned down and kissed the crown of her head, taking in the scent of sweet strawberries in her long, silver-gold hair.

 

Drogo stepped away from her to return to Daeron, holding out a hand that signaled her to halt. He placed a knee into Daeron’s back and grabbed him by the hair again, exposing his neck.

“No!” shouted Visenya, fearing her brother’s death.

Drogo gathered a mass of the Valyrian hair and took several hacks at it; most of it was gone in a matter of seconds, scraping the back of his scalp a bit. After that, he stood and walked away. Daeron heard the cheering of riders all around. He ventured a look upwards and saw that Drogo was holding up his bloody arakh in one hand and Daeron’s bloody hair in the other. The only ones who didn’t seem to be cheering were Visenya, Jorah, Black Bear, Irri, Doreah, Jhiqui, Rakharo and his young band of youths. He watched silently as he turned and flung Daeron’s hair into a nearby fire; he watched it visibly shrivel and burn away in the flames.

Visenya went over to Daeron and held his head in her arms. She shed tears of joy over him. “Foolish little brother! How could you ever challenge the khal? But did you see that? He spared you! He listened to me! Soon, we’ll cross the narrow sea! Trust in me, little brother!”

He said nothing. In too much pain and tired of his sister’s words. He couldn’t believe how much she had changed but he didn’t necessarily blame her. Not after everything else. He began drifting in and out, losing consciousness and he felt himself being dragged away from Visenya. She shouted something that Daeron couldn’t understand before everything was dark.

 

 

 

 


	6. Forgive Me/The Stranger Follows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne comes to a crossroads involving her companion; Daeron comes to rely upon Jorah much more than before

** Jeyne **

 

 

            The light shone on Jeyne’s face and she subconsciously shifted away from it.

            “Good morning, Jeyne” Jeyne Poole called out to her, folding her hands over her front to appear proper. She shifted slightly, unsure of herself. “It is time to rise, I think.”

            Jeyne yawned and stretched in bed before smiling to her steward. “It is.” She then visibly shivered and her eyes shot wide open before she pulled the covers tighter over herself. “Aaagh! It’s cold!”

            “It is.” Poole had a cloak wrapped tightly over herself with a fur over that. It was quite chilly in the room. There was a fireplace that they would have to light. “So I see we will need kindle wood, a striker and oil lamps.”

            Snow lowered her covers to her chin and smiled again at the girl. “I must say, it is refreshing to see you up and so driven.”

            Poole nodded. “I’ve thought about what you said and I would like to try to be more … active.”

            “I’m glad.”

            “Will you be taking a bath this morning?”

            “I think I will.”

            “Then we will retrieve two buckets.” Poole seemed to be peering around the room. “I haven’t seen any accidents from Ghost. She seems to be good about that.”

            “She’s much too proud for that, I think” Snow replied, looking over the bed at her companion. Ghost was awake and silently yawning though still curled on the floor.

            “Do you think she would come with me and be good if I took her out?”

            Snow looked back down at her. “I don’t know … Do you really want to try it?”

            Poole swallowed. She wanted to try this wholeheartedly. “Yes, I do.”

            Snow smiled in admiration at her. “I’ll tell her to behave and if those guards give you trouble, tell them I command it.”

           

            To the surprise of everybody involved, Ghost followed Jeyne Poole with no issue when Snow told her to do so. With Venyon in tow, she took Ghost to a deserted corner of the stronghold to do her business and Venyon buried it in the snow with a borrowed shovel. They brought two buckets of water to Snow and while she took a bath and handled other matters of hygiene, they went to gather kindlewood from the stewards downstairs.

            As they prepared to carry the wood back, they heard the horn blowing.

            “Open the Gates!”

            “Open the Gates!”

            The two of them turned and watched as the gate slowly opened. A small caravan arrived of brothers along with new recruits on either horseback or in the back of carts. Venyon and Poole shared a look.

 

            “More men to worry about” Poole said later as she tossed wood onto the stoked fireplace. She had informed Snow about the new recruits.

            “Nothing changes” Snow told her, brushing out some curls before her looking glass. “We act cordial and play our part and everything should be fine. You can have your bath if you’d like. Hurry though, so we can break fast. After, we’ll see if the maester has cloth material. Maybe we can weave some cloaks.” 

           

            Jeor Mormont decided recently that he would introduce himself briefly to each new recruit as an orientation of sorts. Alliser Thorne and Jaremy Rykker were supervising. He stood before them, looking each over carefully. There were fifteen of them; most of them young boys and thieves. There was one that was especially fat, however, wearing a finer embroidered doublet and cape. He was most definitely highborn but appeared soft. A disappointing combination.

            Mormont spoke to him directly. “Who might you be, son?”

            The boy seemed frightened and hesitated to speak.

            “Open your fat mouth, boy!” Ser Alliser ordered. “The Lord Commander asked you who you are!”

            “I-I am Sa-Samwell Tarly, ser.”

            “He is not ‘ser’!” shouted Ser Jaremy Rykker. “You will address him as Lord Commander!”

            Samwell squealed and corrected himself. “Lord Commander! Lord Commander!”

            Mormont didn’t agree with deriding the boys so much but he had to admit, the apparent timidity and softness of the boy left him somewhat unimpressed. He smirked a bit to his own disappointment. “Tarly? Is that Horn Hill?”

            “Y-yes, Lord Commander.”

            “Are you a youngest child?”

            “Not necessarily, Lord Commander. My father bid me take the black.”

            “Ah” Mormont said, “the ‘old seek your glory for your house’ tale. Well, I’ll tell you this. Nay, I’ll say it to all of you! Glory is earned hard here!”

            He began addressing the group. “Know this! There are three orders here! Rangers, stewards and builders! Every morning you will rise and eat a hardy breakfast provided at our common hall! Then you will dedicate three hours to arms training! In the noon, you will cycle through the duties of all orders until we find a suitable place for you! You are not a black brother until you have an order and have sworn your vows to the Watch!”

            He walked to the spot in the center of them and continued addressing all. “I would have you know two things! Well, three! You will never address me directly unless I do so to you first! You will put your comments through my officers! We have our own laws here! My officers would address those! But the punishment will be public and escalating based on the number and severity of the offense!”

            He pointed to the three would-be rapists in their long cages. None of them seemed to be well. They had scarcely been allowed free and only for certain periods of the day. Even when Pypar begged to make water hours earlier he hadn’t been allowed release. He had only been able to hold it so long before he involuntarily relieved himself and the guards laughed at him when he did so. All three of them wouldn’t be standing if they could help it and in fact, all were in that dazed state where they would doze off only to wake terribly and repeat the process. Grenn rested his head uncomfortably against the cage and drooled.

            Mormont went on to draw their attention by going on.

            “I would have you know that desertion from the Night’s Watch is an offense not only here, but throughout the Seven Kingdoms! Even if you were to somehow make it past these walls, you would be hunted day and night! You would have no rest! A summary execution is the only result and there are many men with motive to win their lord’s favor by bringing you in! One last thing, and I must say this now because it is unavoidable! There are two young girls … nay … young women here at the Wall!”

            That surprised some of the boys and men there. There was murmuring and uneasy glances between some of them.

            “Are they fair?” one asked.

            “They are remanded into _my_ custody and protection!” he said perhaps overloud only to overwhelm any more such comments. He looked directly at that commenting man then, whom didn’t meet his eyes. “As a man of the Night’s Watch, you can redeem your crimes whatever they may be but know that you will swear vows. That and these girls … these women are not meant for you. If you should see them walk, you shall walk the other way. Do not meet their eyes and do not let your eyes linger on them for long. They _will_ be protected.”

            Mormont again gestured to the caged men. Shaken, Samwell turned to look at them and swallowed a lump in his throat. This place was terrifying him already.

           

            Jeyne stared before her at the newly burning fireplace, warming her hands. Poole informed her that Maester Aemon had allowed her to appropriate some craft materials. She was seated at the desk then working on weaving the cloak she was fascinated with; they both began to clearly hear the clang of metal outside. The arms training had begun. Poole stopped and looked at Jeyne, who didn’t betray any shift in attention.

            “I think I will take a walk” Jeyne said. “Stretch my legs.”

            “Yes. A _walk_.” Jeyne Poole knew very well that her companion was going to spectate the training but didn’t mention it for fear that Poole would’ve ridiculed her for it. She quickly realized that she might have.

            “I will leave you a guard at the door.” Jeyne moved to retrieve her cloak and gloves from the wardrobe.

            “Oh?” Poole asked. “Which one?”

            “Myrth.” Jeyne tied her cloak about her shoulders and slipped on her gloves.

            “Could you leave me the other instead?”

            Jeyne stopped briefly. “They’re both the same. What does it matter?”

            Poole held her breath. It most certainly _did_ matter but Poole decided to leave it. She could lock the door and Chrissen wouldn’t be allowed in. There wouldn’t be any danger then. “I suppose you’re right.” She conceded falsely.

            Jeyne waved Ghost to her as she moved to leave the room. “Come, Ghost.”

           

            Rast, Grenn and Pypar were permitted to vacate their public cells though only to take part in the arms training. All three appeared far too weary and sluggish to wear the black mail and armor or handle dull arms at all. Their performance suffered. Ser Alliser made it a point to pair each of them with somebody strong and robust like Matthar and Halder. As the trainees battled with each other, he and several instructors walked by and critiqued individuals on their progress and skills. There were nothing but rave reviews from Ser Alliser Thorne.

            “Your base would see you run through like a Flea Bottom whore.”

            “I’ve seen imp minstrels hit harder than that! Hit him!”

            “If I see you miss another opening, I will strip you of your armor and whip you in front of everybody here!”

            “You look like a simple oaf on poppywine! Wear some armor that fits, you lummox!”

            Those were just some of the fine words of encouragement from Ser Alliser to his trainees. He just about growled, however when he looked up near the common hall and saw Jeyne Snow standing there beside Venyon Tice and Ghost.

            Already some of the trainees were distracted. There were various murmurs going around.

            “That’s one of the girls.”

            “She’s pretty fair.”

            “That’s Jeyne Snow. The bastard girl.”

 

            Ser Alliser saw that Dareon was just staring at Jeyne and didn’t even have his sword raised. He strode right over.

            “You forget you’re to take vows, Lover?” He basically shouted in Dareon’s ear. “Your bastard girl will find you princely with a crack in your skull, I bet!”

            Jeyne looked over all of them, unsure on where to place her attention. Halder, the largest, most muscular of the bunch was quite impressive as always even aside from his size. It seemed that no matter who Ser Alliser put before him, he overwhelmed them with little worry. He was what Jeyne imagined were the majority of the Night’s Watch before she saw Castle Black for herself. She had quickly been proven ignorant for that belief and Halder’s status further dampened her idealism. Knowing what she knew then, he didn’t seem to be of noble birth or particularly honorable so she assumed that he was a criminal. She hated that the notion disappointed her so much but she found it did.

            Karl Tanner was another impressive recruit. An older man, middle-aged if she would’ve guessed; he had sharp features: a sharp, angled face, sharp shoulders, and a razor-sharp wit if what Venyon said was to be believed. He was expert with the blade, edged or not and toyed with his opponents like a cat playing with its prey before its kill. He danced about them, finding weak spots in the armor with ease, which was something nobody else even attempted. Venyon told her that he was an assassin from King’s Landing who was caught by the City Watch and sent to the Wall. He looked the part.

            Rast, Grenn, and Pypar, the would-be rapists, still looked the worst for wear. All looked pale and sluggish in some way or another. Pypar was paired off with an older man, another means of punishment from Ser Alliser. It wasn’t long after Pypar started for his opponent that he collapsed on his front. His black armor made a buckling sound as it skidded off of the stone ground.

            Somebody shouted. “Maester! Maester! Bring him to Maester Aemon!”

            The nearby recruits all stopped and began looking at him. One or two kneeled down to check on the young boy and one elevated his head. Pypar was pale and sweating; it sounded as if he were muttering something though they couldn’t hear.

            “Back to your training!” Ser Alliser shouted. “Provide a wide berth but carry on with your training! Stewards will be around to gather the weakling!”

            He repeated his order to them when they didn’t immediately comply. Jeyne thought it harsh and found in it another reason to dislike the old knight.

            Sure enough, stewards did come to retrieve poor Pypar. Still, the mood of the training was affected. Some of the more experienced or unattached brothers weren’t affected and carried on as normal but there were others that felt for the boy, whose hearts weren’t in it that morning. Jeyne herself still held a grudge of sorts against the three boys but didn’t wish their current condition on them by any means.

            While she pondered this, she heard Ser Alliser run off on some more rhetoric.

            “Ah, Hamwell Tarly, the lord of Hams” Ser Alliser called out loudly. “Did you find some armor that fits this time?”

            Jeyne looked up and saw one of the largest boys she had ever seen save for Hodor from Winter town. Ser Alliser was right; his armor was ill fitting. His pauldrons, greaves and thigh armor weren’t tied properly and hung loosely over their corresponding parts. His black mailshirt was awfully tight as well and looked uncomfortable. Jeyne figured that he weighed twenty stone or more. Though he was large and tall, he looked like a young boy in face and demeanor. Frightened and innocent was the body language he displayed to Jeyne. _And yet he’s here at the Wall_.

            “Venyon, who is that?”

            “Not sure myself, Snow. He must be fresh. Poor fatty.” He laughed. “They’ll eat him alive.”

            “Good ser” Sam said softly as he pulled at his mailshirt, “my –“

            “What was that, boy?” Ser Alliser said. “Speak up! I can’t hear you!”

            Sam swallowed and tried again. “Good ser. My chainmail is awfully tight. I don’t think I’m ready.” He was already sweating and out of breath.

            “Nonsense!” Ser Alliser said, suddenly turning jolly. “You look fine! The son of a lord you look like!” He went to Sam and tapped him on the right pauldron. “Now, Sam, I know we forsake previous allegiance but your father and I fought for the same side in the Rebellion. Always admired him, I did! You would live up to his name, would you not?”

            “I-I …”

            “I know you will! I have faith in you, boy! So much faith! You have your sword?”

            Samwell nervously lifted the dull, edgeless sword and began to speak before getting cut off.

            “Good, good!” Ser Alliser exclaimed before guiding him to the yard with the others. “As a Tarly, I’ll challenge you properly. Halder!”

            Halder approached in his black armor. Sam backed towards the armory, terribly afraid. They were near the same size in height and weight; the difference being that Halder was nearly all muscle and Sam … well, he was not.

            “Sam, you will show me what Randyll Tarly taught you” Ser Alliser said. “Have at each other!”

            Halder advanced on Sam, whom cowered away. As Halder raised his blade, Sam held out his meekly while turning his head. Halder swung his sword down and knocked Sam’s out of his limp hand, making him yelp. Halder struck him twice more in the pauldron and in his back as he reacted. Sam crashed onto his front, meekly holding a hand up and shielding his head.

            “I yield!” He screamed. “I yield! Please! No more!”

            Halder turned back to Ser Alliser nervously. “Ser …”

            Ser Alliser stepped forth. “Is this really what Lord Tarly sent me? A round oinker too fat to fit armor and craven to train swords?! I’ll have you up, boy! The smoking’s just begun.”

            Sam still laid low and whimpered, on the verge of tears.

            Ser Alliser smiled. “Halder. Beat on Lord Ham some more until he regains his footing.”

            Halder reluctantly raised his blade and began striking him in the back and side armor.

            Ser Alliser wasn’t satisfied. “Boy, if you don’t hit this disgrace with actual meaning, I’ll have a long cell fashioned for _you_! I want to hear him squeal!”

            Halder set about him harder. Sam really did begin to sob and whimper on the ground.

           

            “This is cruel” said Jeyne, stepping forth. “Ser Alliser! Please stop!”

            She began to make for them but Venyon ran out and grabbed her. “Girl, have you lost it? Stay out of it!”

            Separate to both of them, Ghost took off from Jeyne’s side and ran across the yard towards the group. Before most realized that she was moving, Ghost leapt through the air and knocked Halder to the ground.

            Halder screamed and struggled as Ghost bit at his armor, searching for empty space with her teeth. Her fangs found some flesh and tore above his elbow, drawing blood. In desperation, Halder tried to push her away but she was much too strong, versatile and quick, catching his leg as he turned and tried to crawl away.

            Jeyne and Venyon ran across the yard. Venyon had drawn his own sword, only his had edges. “Girl! Stop this!”

            Ser Alliser unsheathed his real steel. “Beast!” He moved to strike the direwolf in the neck, only for Venyon to move in and deflect his sword in time with his own.

            “The wolf is not yours to kill, ser.”

            Jeyne reached down and wrapped her arms around Ghost’s chest and underbelly. She wrenched her away from Halder and dragged her backwards until she herself fell onto her back. Ghost fell backwards into Jeyne’s lap and struggled greatly atop her to escape her grasp. Her jaws snapped twice in the air and she managed to free herself to the extent that she turned onto her belly atop her human, scratching her a bit in the process. She rose up on her paws and stood tall over Jeyne. For her part, Jeyne immediately reached up and grasped Ghost by the head with both hands, thumbs stroking her lower part of her ears.

            To everybody watching, it looked like Ghost might just lean down and tear out Jeyne’s throat then have her for a meal. Jeyne saw Venyon approaching with his sword over Ghost’s shoulder. “No!” she yelled at him. “I have her! It’s fine!”

            He hesitated.

            She turned back to Ghost and aimed her head towards her own face. She looked right into Ghost’s red eyes. “Ghost! Look at me! No! _No!_ It’s done!”

            After a moment, Ghost’s eyes softened. Jeyne could feel a rumbling in Ghost’s throat. Jeyne believed that if Ghost had a voice, she would be whining. She knew that she had possibly done something terrible and displeased her human. Ghost lowered down and settled her weight onto Jeyne, who then hugged the direwolf with her arms and knees.

            Ghost blinked at her. “I know, I know” Jeyne whispered to her. “What am I going to do with you, girl?” She kissed Ghost’s head between her ears.

 

            The stewards managed to collect Halder as well though with more effort. He was much bulkier with his armor, so they removed it first. Ser Alliser dismissed the other recruits early. The prisoners were remanded back to their cells save for Pypar. For the first time, Jeyne was given an order as if she were a black brother herself. She was ordered to lock Ghost in her room and have Jeyne Poole leave it.

 

            Venyon, Chrissen and Jeyne Poole waited outside the Lord Commander’s office with his guards.

            Chrissen looked to Jeyne Poole with a smile. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your bastard lady in line? Now, look at this mess. Ever imagined seeing a girl whipped at the Wall?”

            “Quiet, fool!” Venyon demanded of him. “Keep your speculations to yourself.”

            Chrissen gave a soft chuckle at that. Jeyne Poole was frankly confused. She didn’t have a full grasp on what was happening; just a few details that Ghost had savaged a boy in the yard. She worried for Jeyne inside.

           

            Ser Alliser and Jeyne stood side by side before the Lord Commander, whom sat at his desk rubbing his temples. Jeyne could only keep her attention on the large raven perched in the corner of the Lord Commander’s office. It flittered about incessantly and she was only slightly eased by the fact that its eyes didn’t carry a blue shimmer.

            “Jeor” she said. “Is … that your raven?”

            “Yes” he replied with his head down. “Please don’t engage it. It speaks but make no mistake; there is no wisdom there.”

            It cawed and stretched its wings.

            The Old Bear really appeared an old bear; weary and over the situation already. He groaned and studied the faces and demeanor of each of them in turn but looked at Jeyne primarily. “I have given twenty years of my life to the Night’s Watch and never have I encountered something such as this. A boy was savaged by a direwolf at Castle Black! Gods, if only some of the brothers I have served with could see this! None of them would believe it.”

            “Just cut down the beast and be done with it” Ser Alliser stated plainly.

            “ _Done!_ ” the raven cawed suddenly, throwing Jeyne off guard. “ _Done!_ ”

            “N-No!” shouted Jeyne, whom was slightly distracted, before she approached the Lord Commander. “I promise that nothing like this will ever happen again.”

            Ser Alliser quickly replied. “That thing is a wolf or as you say, a direwolf. How can you promise that?”

            “I’ll show her that it was wrong! I’ll make her understand!”

            Ser Aliser commented again. “You’re not talking about a child, girl, not even a dog! That thing is a beast with instincts to rip us apart!”

            Jeyne turned towards Ser Alliser. “I’m her human! She trusts me. You can say we are attuned to each other.”

            “Ridiculous!” he scoffed.

            _“Ridiculous!”_ The raven again.

            “Ghost was clearly distressed!” Jeyne argued, turning back to the Lord Commander. “She was picking it up from me. She saw how much of an abuser Ser Alliser is in the yards!”

            “Ah, so _you’re_ the problem” Ser Alliser honed in. “I say we fix it. Ship the lot of them back to Winterfell.”

            “I can’t go back when my father’s not there and you know that!”

            “What, afraid of not having your castle?” he teased. “Go live on the streets and make your own way like every other bastard.”

            That cut at Jeyne though she didn’t want it to and she fought back tears at the notion. She turned away from him. She didn’t want him to have that if it did happen; the pleasure of making her cry.

            The Old Bear smacked at his desk. “You go too far, ser! I would not send her to Winterfell and I resent that notion. I made a promise to Lord Eddard Stark that I would protect her in his stead so that’s what I’ll do. Jeyne, you remind me so much of my own daughter it scares me. I wish I had kept her from her own rash decisions but I failed her in that regard. I won’t fail you. A direwolf is no real pet.”

            Jeyne approached his table. “Jeor … she’s no pet … but she feels like … a part of me.”

            Ser Alliser cut in. “Accept the truth, girl. That beast should be cut down. Keep a paw for a keepsake or a pelt.”

            Jeyne looked at him and never wanted to hit somebody so badly in her life. She had scarcely come across knights in her life and she found the more she conversed with them, the less she enjoyed their company.

            Old Bear pointed at Ser Alliser. “You stop that talk. I’ll not have that. The wolf will _not_ be harmed. It’s clear that it’s more than that to her. I can clearly see that she’s distressed. It affects her morale. But Jeyne” he considered her then, “I _cannot_ have her around my men. They will be terrified of her. I cannot have them living in fear within these walls. Not from an animal. I’d see her put in the kennels for your time here.”

            “Far too lenient” Ser Alliser commented.

            “You want to cage her up?” asked a distraught Jeyne. “She’s not much removed from a cub. She’s not a dog. She’s a … a wolf. She’s not meant for a kennel.”

            “I’m afraid, Jeyne, there are but two other options” the Old Bear said with clear sympathy. “You can release her. But she is a direwolf and I will not have her kind south of the wall if I can help it. Far too dangerous. She’d have to go to the other side. North of the Wall.”

            “ _Please_.” Jeyne uttered with a gasp, almost falling to her knees.

            “ _Please. Please._ ” The raven repeated, almost sounding like it was mocking her.

            “There is the other option” the Old Bear told her. “Which I hate to even bring up.”

            Jeyne heard the sound of scraping metal and looked over at Ser Alliser. He flashed her a bit of his steel sword from its hilt with a smug smirk on his face.

            “ _Hate!_ ” was the word the raven picked on that time.

 

            “I’m sorry, Jeyne” Jeyne Poole told her just as Lord Steward Bowen Marsh led her into the kennels below; Venyon, Chrissen and two watchmen were there with them, swords at the ready. The Night’s Watch kept a small pack of hounds they used for ranging, tracking and hunting at times. Every one showed high aggression from their cells as Jeyne passed with Ghost. There was barking and growling all around; some retreated to the rear of their cage while others were braver and bounded around their cage or strode right to the front as they snarled at Ghost in protest. Ghost was silent and watching, undisturbed by their hate and fear. Bowen led them to the right cell near the end. Jeyne looked down at the direwolf after Marsh unlocked her cell. There was straw over the stone floor and a barred window to the outside.         

Jeyne kneeled down to her companion. “I’ll visit you every day, girl. I’ll always be close. I’ll talk with them and we’ll see if you can hunt. I know you need that.”

            Ghost nipped at Jeyne’s sleeve and playfully tugged first in one direction, then the opposite. Jeyne laughed. “Silly. Will you stretch all my clothing?”

            She leaned down and held Ghost’s head close and whispered in her left ear. “You should be with me always. I’ll make it up to you, girl. Tenfold. I promise.”

            Jeyne sat back away from her and Ghost willingly moved away and walked into her open cell. Wide-eyed and teary, Jeyne touched the black iron bars and wrapped a hand around one as Bowen closed the cell door and locked it. Jeyne and Ghost stared into each other’s eyes before Ghost lowered herself low to her straw grass and closed her eyes.

            “Come, Jeyne” Venyon said, touching her shoulder. “We’ll bring her meat for dinner.”

            Jeyne gave a solemn nod and gave one last look to Ghost before leaving.

           

 

            As Jeyne left the kennels she was surprised to see Jeyne Poole conversing with the large new recruit, Samwell Tarly. As she approached, Samwell turned in her direction and clumsily dipped his head.

            “My lady!” he blurted out.

            Chrissen began to cackle at that, confusing Sam terribly who seemed unsure of himself. Jeyne gave Chrissen an irritated look, before stepping closer to Sam.

            “You don’t have to show me such courtesy” Jeyne assured him. “I may have a young steward” she gestured to Jeyne Poole, “and guards, as unsavory as some of them are” she nodded in Chrissen’s direction; “but I am still Jeyne Snow, a lord’s bastard. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell is my father. A mistake; a … living blight on my father’s honor most call me.”

            “You don’t look like a mistake to me” Sam uttered before he grew bright red and fidgeted. “I-I meeean … my … my name’s Sam! Samwell Tarly! And I came to say sorry for your wolf! It’s a waste for it to be caged up just for me.”

            Jeyne disagreed. “Nonsense. If Ghost hadn’t done anything, I would’ve. Ser Alliser goes much too far in my opinion.”

            “Ghost?” Sam picked up on the name. “Because it’s white fur? T-that’s clever.”

            Jeyne gave a warm smile and nodded. “Thank you … Sam.”

            Jeyne Poole, the guardsmen and even the two watchmen with them all spectated awkwardly as there was a bit of a silence after that.

            “Well … I just wanted to apologize … for everything. Good day, my la … I mean … miss … I mean …”

            Sam stiffened, grew red again and just began to stumble off. Jeyne turned and gave a Poole a look when Sam turned back around and rejoined them.

            “I just wanted to say one thing” Sam blurted. “You may be … _that_ … but you’re no mistake. Your lord father must care for you because he left these folk to you. _I’m_ the mistake in my father’s eyes. He sent me here for my … I am unfit to inherit his lands and titles. He told me that. So, I just wanted … to let you know. You’re not the mistake. _I_ am. Good …night to you.”

            He stumbled off again and Jeyne really felt for him then. The entire group were motionless for a while.

            Chrissen was the one to break the silence. “Will you make an oathbreaker out of that boy, Snow?”

            If Snow thought she could hurt him badly and get away with it, she would have.

 

           

 

 

 

** Daeron **

 

 

           

            Drogo allowed Jorah and his own herbmen to tend to Daeron’s wounds in his camp. Daeron drifted in and out consciousness for the next several days but once when he woke, he heard Visenya, Jorah and the Dothraki arguing bitterly. He distinctly remembered Visenya striking Jorah across the face. At some point, his arm was again re-splinted. They cleaned the wounds between his legs, his back and head before stitching shut whatever they could and treating them with paste and herb poultices.

            Once, he awoke an orange sun grazed his eyes and he was rocking in the back of a horse-drawn cart. He felt the tight confines of rope tying him multiple times over to a padded litter; all of his limbs were bound and he felt little pain. He could feel the healing herbs all over him, numbing his wounds. He looked before and around him; the khalasar traveled with riders on all sides of him. He tried his hardest to keep the sun out of his eyes using just his eyelids. Even with his eyes closed, they burned.

 

            At day’s end, Daeron’s litter was placed near the center of camp. He let his mind go blank, no longer caring to watch the children play or their mothers gather water from the river; he didn’t care to see worker men staking down their tents or the riders sharpening their blades. Watching people used to be an enjoyment but it had become tainted and a waste, just like everything else. It wasn’t long before Visenya came to him with a leather skin of water. He noticed the slightest swell in her belly and felt ill.

            She knelt at his side with a wide smile that seemed unfit for their predicament. “Something is happening, brother. Something wonderful.”

            Daeron said nothing and gave her an apathetic look.

            She went on regardless. “We are going to Vaes Dothrak, the province of all Dothraki. The Dothraki will present me to their crones. They will honor our child. They will honor me as khaleesi and Khal Drogo will honor our claim to the Iron Throne.”

            Daeron willfully turned his head from her. It was all he could do with his body torn as it was and bound to the litter. If he could run from her, he would; he was so close to being completely done with her. Her madness; her abuse; everything.

            “You have nothing to say?” she asked expectantly.

            “Do you … still ignore …reason?” His mouth was so dry that he croaked the words but he still didn’t look at her.

            “Hmm?”

            He knew she heard him and wasn’t going to repeat himself.

            She placed a hand over his bound chest. “Dae’, you must understand” he turned his head back to her, curious to hear the lie she intended him to believe, “the khal is a proud man … and you challenged him before everyone …”

            He opened his mouth to speak but she raised a finger. “Let me finish …” she began.

            “ _No_ ” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ve listened to you all of my life … and you brought us _here_. Now, you listen to _me_.” She blew out some air, but let him go on. “He … _rapes_ you. He beats you. Then, he does … this. Still, you persist? Sister?”

            “Hmm?”

            “You will go to Jorah and Black Bear.”

            “Hmm.”

            “And you will leave with them. Tonight. Follow their instructions and they will hide you away. I will make sure of it.”

            “Hmm” She nodded as if she agreed and smiled at him sweetly. “That is a grand plan, little Dae’. Truly. Do you mind if I add a few details to it? I won’t do any of that. I’m actually starting to think that wench has had her bear paws on you far too much for my liking. So what we’ll do is dismiss her back to whatever hellpit they put betrayers.”

            “No …”

            “Or I could just have their heads. I could have them both beheaded in front of you if you would prefer.”

            He shook his head. “I finally see. I should’ve seen it long ago.”

            Her smile faded somewhat. “What?”

            “You were always a little touched, Visenya” he whispered hoarsely but pointedly. “Completely mad at times. I should’ve ran away. You would never get better. But now, you’re even worse than that. At least, you could call yourself a wild dragon before. Now, you’re just a kept woman.”

            Visenya froze and he relished in the apparent fact that he had said anything that might’ve gotten through to her. She turned and lowered the bottle to the ground before turning back to him. She stroked his cheek delicately before reaching and caressing his half-torn left ear.

            “My maimed prince” she murmured. She leaned farther over him. Then both her hands shot to a point just under his throat, squeezing down hard. He had no way of defending himself, though she didn’t actually choke him. It seemed more of a threat to choke him.

            She looked down at him with a snarl and determined eyes. “A kept woman am I? Well who keeps you, brother? I do! I should strangle the life out of you like you did me! If I did, you wouldn’t see mother and father in paradise; no, you would fall into a dark pit with that blind fool, Rhaegar. Do you think that idiot would even know who you were? Just two white-haired idiots burning in hells together never knowing the other. They could make a song of it, I bet.”

            She released him then, leaving him be while she stood up from him and took a long swallow from the skin. “I brought this for you” she said with a satisfied sigh when she was done, “but I need it more since I’m with child. Perhaps the thirst will bring you clarity … and respect.” He was silent as he was incensed at her words but he knew speaking on it would keep her longer and he would rather that she leave.

             

           

            “I apologize for the intrusion, my prince” Jorah said to him and when she came to him later. Black Bear was nearby standing guard over her. She leaned over Daeron and he squirmed when he felt her fingers graze over and around his genitals as well as the area near his anus. There was no piss or excrement and for that, she was grateful. She rinsed her hand with a cleansing chemical from her bag before taking out small strips of horseflesh and bread; she leaned over him to feed it into his mouth. He scowled at her but accepted it all the same. He hated the idea of her babying him; of himself left so dysfunctional that she would have to do that. She watched him chew for a while though he began choking. She lifted his head slightly.

            “Easy, prince.”

            “ _Water_ ” he choked out. “Water.

            She dipped a cup into her pail and put it to his lips.  

            “We must be away from here, Jorah” he whispered between sips. “My sister has gone mad and Drago grows bolder. I fear for the child. But she doesn’t see reason …”

            Jorah shushed him and fed the water back to his lips. He sipped some to satisfy her but turned his head away allowing some to spill out so he could continue speaking. “ _He’ll kill me soon. You know it!_ ”

            Jorah leaned close. “ _We will, prince. I promise. But not now. They watch you always_ ”.

            The two of them looked to the campfire over Jorah’s shoulder. There were indeed a small gathering of riders eating goat flesh and trying to appear inconspicuous about watching over the bound prince.

            _Of course_.

            “You’re all here” he heard Visenya’s voice call out as she approached from the other side of the campfire with Drogo and his bloodriders in tow. “Good.”

            Daeron struggled in his binds at the sight of them, grunting and growling at a chance to get to Drogo again.

            The horselord laughed at his feeble attempt.

            “Enough of that, Dae’” Visenya said. “This is just what we discussed earlier. Jorah Mormont.”

            Jorah, with trepidation, stood and faced her. “Khaleesi.”

            She placed her hands over heart. “You have served me well but I regretfully release you from my service.” She dipped her head. “I wish you well. Now, if you’d kindly step away from my brother.”

            Qotho, Haggo and Cohollo moved towards her, hands on the hilt of their arakh’s and whips.

            “Since you’re not under my protection, do keep in mind that you’re in a Dothraki camp” Visenya went on. “Some savages have never tasted an Andal or a First Man or whatever you are.”

            Black Bear drew his broad sword and crept towards Jorah, drawing a flick of Cohollo’s whip and coarse words. It struck Black Bear in the right arm and wrist though he halted for only a moment and got in between Jorah and them regardless. He showed no signs of pain nor irritation though his wrist and arm had been opened and bloodied.

            “<Blood of my Blood>” Drago growled at them. “<Kill.>”

            Haggo lunged at him first. Black Bear shoved Jorah to the ground behind with his left hand and deflected Haggo’s strike with an upward glance with his right. Haggo went reeling but he quickly recovered and came at the Unsullied for another go. Black Bear redirected two more of his slashes and kicked his left knee out from under him. Haggo yelled out and fell to one knee. Black Bear raised his broadsword above his head with both hands in order to shove it through the bloodrider’s back. Cohollo flashed his whip again and slashed Black Bear in the face, driving him to stumble away again.

            When he came to a halt, he felt his cheek and Jorah saw that the his right cheek had been horribly flayed open, causing bloody flesh to be exposed and blood to gush down his face though he made no move to stop this.

            “Stop this, I beg you!” Jorah pleaded.

            “Silence, woman!” Drogo said as Haggo tried to limp to his feet only to fall again. Cohollo readied his whip while Qotho took a step forward, arakh in hand. Drogo placed a hand on Qotho’s chest and guided him backwards.

            “<This is my kill now.>” He pulled his own arakh free and flung his exceptionally long braid over his shoulder. He looked upon Black Bear, ready to face him as the Unsullied squatted down in preparation, double-handling his broadsword and not caring for his own ruined face.

            _Kill him, Black Bear_ , wished Daeron internally as Drogo bounded towards the Unsullied. From first glance, Drogo appeared as if he intended to leap head-on into Black Bear to crash his arakh down upon his skull. However, Drogo feinted this move and instead tried a double-handed carve at the hips. Black Bear for his part, parried this attack three times in a row. The two went on to clash arakh to sword many times over the next minute; neither were wavering or retreating for long. Drogo was the stronger and more energetic but Black Bear’s technique and discipline kept Drogo from adding too much force behind his attempts and frustrated him to no end. At one point, Drogo managed to find an open mark on Black Bear’s left bicep. Daeron worried greatly for that as Drogo had opened a wide gash and soon Black Bear’s whole arm was slick with blood it seemed, to his wrist. However, Black Bear showed no outward reaction to the injury whether initially or afterwards. He went on fighting as if nothing had changed at all as he did with his other injuries.

            This seemed to trouble Drogo as well, who failed to block an attack effectively and got slashed underneath the forearm for it. He yelled in anger and leapt backwards before leaping forward again. Black Bear shifted away from him and let him pass, giving a diagonal slash across his back. Drogo yelled out in pain as he stumbled forward. Blood began to spill down his back, which Daeron could see well. He turned on his heel and lunged toward the Unsullied much like Daeron had done against him prior. Drogo crashed his arakh upon him with renewed fury and Black Bear was barely able to deflect his blows, being retreated backwards constantly. Drogo screamed louder and louder for each glancing blow. Eventually, their blades locked together again and they struggled against one another.

            Drogo spit directly into Black Bear’s eyes, distracting the Unsullied enough to freeze him. Drogo leapt into him and took him to the ground.

            “Nooo!” Daeron shouted at this.

            Drogo clutched Black Bear’s trachea directly and wrenched right and then left, dislocating it inside of his neck. He then stood up from him and watched with a laugh as Black Bear lay on the ground, choking and struggling for air. Blood began spurting from his mouth and foaming as the man choked. Daeron squeezed his eyes shut. Another miserable tragedy and another horrible death. Eventually, Black Bear stopped moving. Jorah looked away as well, tears streaming down her cheeks.

            Visenya, whom had stood well away from the fray, approached again. “You could’ve prevented that if only you’d gone willingly” she said to a seated Jorah, even as Black Bear involuntarily choked for life. “Just close your eyes and take it. Pretend that it’s my father.”

            Jorah nearly howled as she leapt to her feet and tried to get to her. Visenya flinched and backed away only to be saved when two riders caught Jorah and wrestled her to the ground when she made it past the fire. They slapped and held her in place on the ground.

            Drogo went to Haggo with a knife in hand. He gave a look Black Bear, whom had stilled by then. He held the knife out to him.

            “<Cut your braid.>”

            Haggo had to be helped by Cohollo in order to stand. “<Blood of my blood …>”

            “<Do it. Or die.”>

            With a slump of his shoulders, Haggo reluctantly took it and with Cohollos’ help sawed at the base of his braid.

            Drogo pulled a small blade hidden in his armbands and crouched down to Black Bear’s front.

            “Do what you will with me but leave Jorah alone” Daeron called out to him.

            “Dae’!” Visenya answered. “Shut up!”

            Daeron ignored her. “She has only been helpful!”

            Drogo seemed to ignore them both. He looked over Black Bear’s corpse and closed his wide-open eyes. He would honor his foe in death with a burning later. He took the knife and began cutting underneath his chin before yanking free his prize. Moments later, he approached the prince.

            “A gift, king” he flung the detached tongue with the corresponding bloody membrane and bone that came with it, onto Daeron’s chest who was bound and couldn’t do anything about it. “For you.”

            Daeron saw the bloody muscle on his chest and screamed out, flailing about so roughly that he upended the litter that he was on onto its side. Nobody bothered to set him right again, as the khal and khaleesi left quickly to tend to his new wounds. He could hear men chuckling and struggling accompanying the tear of fabric and Jorah’s muffled wails behind him. He was thankful that he couldn’t see. He just wished he could close his ears to it as well.

           

           

            Moments later, Drogo took a blade. He kneeled to Black Bear’s front and cut under his chin. With some tugging, he wrenched free his prize.

            “Trophy, King” he said. “For you.” Drogo tossed a bloody tongue with the attached muscle onto Daeron’s lap. Daeron thrashed wildly to the point that the litter rocked over to his left and he ended up with the left side of his face in the dirt. The surviving riders laughed at him and nobody set him right again.

            Drogo left them then, likely to attend to his wounds. Daeron heard the tear of torn fabric and Jorah’s muffled cries. He was turned away from them so he thankfully could not see. He cursed himself for being unable to help her. He closed his eyes and tried at willing his ears shut so he wouldn’t have to hear.

           

            He felt tugging on his ropes as well as something shaking him. He stirred, slowly dragging his face in the dirt. _Had_ _I fallen asleep? How could I?_ He heard shaky breaths above him and he felt himself loose from the litter and face first on the ground. That didn’t seem to liberate him because his body felt incredibly sluggish and almost completely immobile. He looked up as Jorah flipped the litter away from him.        

            She was no longer wearing a dress but the animal skin pants of the Dothraki and a fur covering her shoulders and front side over her chest. There was blood splattered over her face and more of her from what he could see though it was partially covered.

            Her voice was a shaky yet sharp whisper. “Your grace, we must leave at once! No arguments! I have arranged it.”

            He wouldn’t fight her. There was nothing else there for him. Visenya had made that clear. “Yes …”

            She carried a bag over her shoulder filled with essentials and a bow with a small quiver slung over her other shoulder. She reached down and helped him to his feet. He almost fell immediately but she caught and steadied him.

            “I’m sorry” he said, his head low. “I’m so pitiful.”

            Thinking it best not to respond to that, she said. “We must hurry, your grace.”

 

            She walked him to Drogo’s watched herd, stopping once by an unlit tent when she saw a Dothraki man seated on a stool. She was relieved to see he was dozing with his head hung low and a horn of milk spilt at his feet. Beyond him was the herd, illuminated by several braziers and watched over by the herdmaster.

            The herdmaster held a double-saddled mare by the reins when they met him. Jorah put a coinbag in his hand and spoke to him briefly in Dothraki.

            “Up you go, your grace.” She helped him up into the saddle though he struggled mightily. She fastened her things to the horse before leading her a ways from the herd before pulling the reins to hold it steady. They began to hear shouting from the encampment behind them. The two of them looked back in alarm. They had discovered her scene. She handed the reins to Daeron.

            “Hold that horse steady.” She moved back towards the herd.

            “Jorah!” Daeron whispered. “Where are you going? Jorah!”

            Jorah crept behind the herdmaster and slipped a dagger from her skins. She grabbed him and slashed his throat hard before shoving him to the ground. She reached down and retrieved her coinbag and his whip. She ran over and kicked over the two of the braziers near the horses; she whipped the nearest horse to her twice in the side, agitating a large number of them. The horses began to scatter, neighing wildly and trampling the earth with nobody to calm them.

            Jorah could see men running for the horses behind her. She ran to the mare and climbed up behind Daeron before taking the reins from him. She turned the horse towards the woods beyond the nearby flatlands and made the mare take heed. They galloped quickly, Jorah spurring their steed faster and faster.

            Daeron found his pain slowly returning from the added stimulation of the bouncing saddle and weight shift of the powerful mare. His back began throbbing painfully. He hissed and tightened the grip of his thighs around the horse’s sides and held tightly to the horn of his saddle before him. He ventured a look back over Jorah’s shoulder.

            The fire had spread near the herd and the horses were running wild as a result. Some ran through the encampment, smashing and falling into tents. One had caught flame; another reared on its hind legs as a man tried to calm it and trampled him to death beneath its weight. To Daeron’s dismay, two riders had managed to calm horses well enough to mount them and give chase. Their stallions were far back but they were tracking them nonetheless.

            “Jorah!” Daeron shouted. “Riders!”

            “Hold on, King!” she continuously kicked at the horse, putting it at likely top speed. Sustained running at that rate would make the horse collapse eventually. Daeron knew that. Any slight change of direction or slight trip of the horse and they would surely die. 

            Daeron heard a sharp whistle through the air above his head. A while later, another to his right. He realized they must’ve been loosing arrows at them. _On horseback? How?_

            Before long, they were approaching the woods and the riders were still on their trail. Daeron wondered if they would ever be able to lose them. Their horse would give out and then what? The mare was slowing dramatically to almost a trot. He first thought was that the mare had enough but quickly realized the reins were pulling tight at his sides.

            “Jorah?”

            “We have to slow to enter the forests.” Jorah assured him.

            Daeron looked back again. The riders were really gaining then. He made out the silhouettes under the pale moonlight; long braids trailing behind them, arakhs on hips and bow and quivers slung over the backs. 

            Jorah entered the mare down a trail they could scarcely see before pulling her to an aggressive halt.

            “What are you doing?” Daeron asked in bewilderment as Jorah leapt down from the saddle. “Jorah!” He could hear rustling trees and hoofbeats on the ground; the riders were in the woods with them.       

            “Down, King!” Jorah whispered. “Hurry!”

            She held out her arms and helped as he struggled off as he almost took her down with him. She took the bag from the mare’s straps, along with her bow and quiver.

            “Yah!” she yelled as she smacked the horse on its hindquarters, sending it off free down the trail. “Yah!”

            Jorah took a stunned Daeron by the shoulder and led him off of the beaten path of the trail into the treeline. As they crept over the leaves and branches the riders rode the trail after the sounds of their riderless mare.

            Daeron tried to look back but Jorah felt this and yanked him.

            “Keep moving!” she harshly whispered. “We mustn’t look back now!”

            So she willed him on, much like she had willed the mare to near-collapse. Only, she wouldn’t abandon Daeron. They heard those riders’ shouts fade as they went on.

 

            The skies were a dim and cloudy blue-purple mix, a darkened reflection of a melancholy sea, and it was just barely dawnbreak when Jorah brought her charge to a creek bed adjacent to the forest. Both were tired, sweating, short of breath and low on energy. She lowered him gently by water’s edge, propping him against a large rock where he could sit almost upright. He strained as he looked at her, grunting.

            “The pain … has been returning” Daeron groaned, “for some time now.”

            “I know.” Jorah lowered the bag from her shoulder rubbed the area that had been rubbed raw from its strap. “I ask that you bear with it a while longer. We have farther to go.”

            “Did …” he said through panted breaths. “Did they hurt you … last night?”

            She stopped and looked up at him warily. “It … doesn’t matter.” She touched his shoulder in comfort and took a cup from her bag. She went to the creek and cupped sips from it in her hands. It had aftertaste of mineral and sediment but it was satiating nonetheless. She splashed her face and hair quickly; she took sharp inhales and welcomed the fresh rinse. She returned to Daeron with a half-full cup.

            “Seven!” he cursed. “Black Bear.”

            “I know” she said with a nod. Her protector. Her longtime friend. “He’s gone. There’s only us now.”

            He hissed and closed his eyes. “Where will we go?”

            She put the cup to his lips. “Will you fight me now?” He opened his mouth as she fed the water into his lips. He drank some before he began coughing and spitting some of it up. She sighed in frustration and rubbed her forehead.

            “It’s terrible!”

            “It’s fine.” She placed the cup into his good hand somewhat forcibly. “I need you to drink that. Hurry with it. We have to leave this area quickly.” She stood and went back to the water beyond his field of vision. He reluctantly he sipped at it and grimaced. While he did that, she moved the fur from her front and waded on her knees in the creek. She rubbed at her face, breasts and shoulders; she washed herself of the dried and swirled blood from the previous night. She would have to wait until later to wash down below.

            While Jorah washed in the creek, Daeron heard the sound of metal on greenery could be heard as if a scythe was chopping through wheat fields. He could also make out voices at an indeterminate distance within the forests.

            He called back to Jorah, barely above a whisper. “Jorah! Jorah!”

            Jorah stopped for a moment and looked back. “What is it, prince?”

            “Somebody’s coming. I think it’s the riders.”

            Jorah sighed and wiped herself down some more before rising from the water. She re-wrapped the fur about herself and returned to Daeron. He looked at her, frightened. She briefly put a hand over his mouth and nose. When he gave a muffled protest, she shushed him quiet and listened to the sounds. They were getting closer. It seemed that the riders had found out their ruse and tracked them prior to even first light.

            Jorah removed her hand and whispered to him. “I need you to trust me, prince.” She removed the crude dagger she kept from its hilt. “And to remain calm.”

            “What do you me- Jorah! Jorah!” She had suddenly turned and in a crouched run, ran for the forest treeline at a perpendicular angle of the approaching riders with her bow and quiver in hand. He was understandably alarmed that she seemingly abandoned him alone to them and they sounded like they were closing in. He called her name once more to no avail. She was gone in the woods. Before long, they appeared on the edge of the wood, slowing to a stop at the sight of them. They were the very same riders. One had a bow slung over his shoulders. They spoke to each other and the bowman disappeared back into the forest, to track down Jorah. The other approached Daeron.

            _Fuck_. He leaned farther back into the rock and pushed onto the ground; he attempted to stand but found it difficult and painful. The sweating rider took his time approaching him for he was tired as well but would not betray that to the boy if he had his way. His arakh was out and pointed at Daeron.

            “Away with you! Leave me alone!” Daeron flung rocks at him with his good hand. Most of them were off-target and missed wide; the few that were on target, the Dothraki swatted away easily.

            “Khal Drogo would have words, _Khal Raggat_ ” the rider growled. “Can bring you without parts.”

            The two of them heard a terrible cry in the distance behind them. A pained cry that froze both of them and made them fearful; a cry that belonged assuredly to a man. The rider turned from Daeron, waiting and scanning the trees for any movement. They swayed softly in the wind and he heard the call of birds and insects but little else. Suddenly, a snap of twigs and a whistle. The impact of the fletched arrow in his mid-section caused him to stumble backwards and stumble to the ground. He groaned in pain, clutching the arrow in him as blood spilled from his mouth. Daeron watched all of this, breathless.

            Jorah bounded down from the trees and sprinted towards them with her ready bow in hand, splashed in a fresh coat of blood. The rider, in desperation, flung his arakh at her in a high arc. She immediately dropped to the ground, sliding on her back in the dirt to avoid its blade. She scrambled to her feet after that and advanced to within five feet of him. He struggled on the ground and just as he got to one knee, she had steadied herself and loosed an arrow into his heart. He dropped to his side, stretching out painfully for a few moments until his body relaxed and he was perished. With a sharp exhale, Jorah lowered her newly acquired bow and went to Daeron panting.

            She again grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulders with the bow. “Come, Daeron. We must leave at once.”

            Daeron looked to her, saddened but relieved. “I thought you left me.”

            She stopped and looked at him directly in the eyes. “Never, your Grace. Never again.”

 

 

** Jeyne **

 

 

           

            Everything felt wrong. On a normal morning, Jeyne would look down from her bed and see Ghost sprawled by the fireplace only to turn her attention on her when she sensed her awake. She would then pad over and place her paws on the pillow next to Jeyne’s head and look into her eyes. She thought it the sweetest thing. She couldn’t have that anymore. Instead, she would take an escort with her down through the chilly yard, into the only slightly warmer kennels, abide incessant barking and howls of the hounds on the way to her cage. She often brought the girl her strips of bloody meat as she requested to do. 

            _If she should be miserable, let me share in it._ She truly did look miserable in that cage; her red eyes looked so sad. When she dropped the strips before her through the bars, she even seemed sluggish and slothful as she fed. She rubbed her head as she fed, running some of the sticky red through her fur.

            “I’m sorry” she whispered to her, though that seemed somewhat selfish to say upon quick reflection. An apology wouldn’t free her from the cell. Perhaps it would’ve been better to free her beyond the Wall. Then she would’ve had a chance do what came naturally to her. If her dead mother had been anything to go off of, Ghost may soon grow big for the kennels and what would Watch do then? _I’ve doomed you, girl._ She fed her the rest of the meat and rubbed under her neck before turning from her, finding that being there for an extended amount of time drained her. Ghost watched her the entire way.

There were days where she would walk out on her balcony and the brothers in the yard below would try to put on a show for her. She would play the fair lady for that was her part to play, looking astonished at impressive techniques and clapping when two opponents put on a good show; she offered words of encouragement to those who struggled. But her heart wasn’t in it anymore; her attention was truly on the kennels; yet whenever she was there, she wanted to cry. Just as Tyrion had seen and what she refused, her party and the Night’s Watch were one and the same; she was trapped there, only she had no brotherhood to warm her spirits from the cold. She gained some relief when she had asked the large boy Halder’s forgiveness. Halder was more than happy to give it. He was gracious and courteous to her when she asked and surprised her by making a quick recovery from the attack. He seemed to be the happy soul, something which endeared him to the young girl and eased her conscious the slightest bit. She still missed Ghost terribly.

            Before long, days turned into weeks and the situation had yet to change. Her father was still hand to the king and the girls were still at the Wall. She wondered if anything would truly change for her in Winterfell or if a bastard’s life was all she was destined. She supposed it didn’t matter either way. She would never be happy in a place like King’s Landing.

            Jeyne Poole was seated on Jeyne’s bed, weaving a black cloak. She had long finished a dark blue. The two girls had gotten so good at playing stable, sociable ladies that neither betrayed any signs of distress and sadness to even each other. Poole looked up and saw Snow was still reading a letter from Arya at her desk.

            Arya told Jeyne that she hated King’s Landing at first because it was so crowded and smelled awful in the markets and streets. However, she had shown father Needle and he allowed her to train in something she called ‘waterdancing’ with a Braavosi swordsman. Sansa was being courted by Prince Joffrey Baratheon, her betrothed. Arya did not like him at all.

            “Are you alright?” Jeyne Poole asked Snow, whom had been staring at the letter for five minutes, not moving for a while.

            Jeyne looked at her, giving her an odd smile. “Of course. It’s strange that you’d ask.”

            Jeyne Poole stopped with her needles for a moment. “No. It’s just … I was worried … I mean, you say you’re fine so nevermind.”

            Jeyne decided to let that lie. “It seems Sansa is getting on fine with His Royal Highness Prince Joffrey.”

            “I heard” Poole said offhandedly without looking up.

            “You did? Has she been writing you?”

            “Umm … well, yes. I’m sorry, I told her to write you … too.”

            “Oh.”

            “You could read our … letters if you’d like.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s private between the two of you.”

            Jeyne Poole nodded, slightly uncomfortable, and went back to weaving.

            Jeyne sat up and announced, “I’m going to take a walk.”

            “Oh … be safe.”

            Jeyne pulled a fur over her shoulders and stepped into her winter boots before leaving the room.

 

            Jeyne threw open the doors to the common hall. A scant few were inside; a few elder brothers were scattered throughout the benches. She noticed Sam, lonely and in the far left corner, was in the midst of wiping down tables with rags and a bucket of water at his side.

            “What are we doing here, Snow?” questioned Chrissen behind her. “Snow?”

            She ignored him and strode across the hall in Sam’s direction. Sam didn’t notice her as his head was low and he scrubbed harshly into the oak table. She stood facing him on the opposite side though he didn’t seem to notice her. She leaned over the table and put one knee on the bench. She purposely smacked her flat palms against the surface. He yelped and stumbled backwards; he almost knocked his bucket over.

            “Hello, Sam” she greeted as she returned to a standing position before him. “If you’re to be a brother of the Night’s Watch, you should pay more attention to your surroundings. Ser Alliser wouldn’t be happy to see you taken for surprise by a girl.”

            “Well, I suppose you’re right” said Sam said with a curt nod before he continued scrubbing.

            “I still watch you train” she told him, reaching for something to talk about. He paused and waited in suspense for her to go on. “You’re getting better.” She offered with a wince. “Would you care for some advice?”

            “I suppose it couldn’t hurt” Sam said with an awkward smile.  

            Chrissen groaned. Jeyne looked back and gave him a nasty look before she turned back to Sam.

            “If you pardon my saying, you’re a heavy boy” she told him. “Heavier than most.”

            “You mean fat” Sam chided at himself with a smile.

            “Stop that!” She stepped towards him, making him flinch somewhat. “It’s alright to make light of yourself sometimes but don’t insult yourself. The world will always try to cut you down, don’t do it for them.”

            “Yes, my lady.” He was a bit thrown off by forwardness so he fell back on an honorific to address her.

            “You’re heavy” she went on with a sigh, drawing a nod from him. “Use it. When you strike, square yourself. You have all these stones. Throw some of it behind your blows. You don’t just strike with your arm, you’re using your torso but it all begins with your feet. Drive off with your heels and you will be knocking back your foes in no time.”

            Sam paused, dropping the rag to the table. “How do you know all-“

            “And your defense” she continued, “same principle. Squat more. Plant yourself. Give a little ground if you have to but don’t break completely. Move a bit, just enough to use your shield to slip through some of the heavier attacks. You should not be tumbling to the ground after one or two blows. Not with all of _this_.” She slapped him a few times on the arm for emphasis.

            He chuckled. “You’re … right. It’s just so … I’ll try. Honestly, I’ll try.” The doors to the common hall opened but Jeyne didn’t pay it any mind. Sam did and immediately went back to scrubbing.

            “Listen” she said, “I’m friendly with some of the other recruits. I’ll talk to them. Tell them to work with you.”

            “Why are you pestering my recruits, Snow?” called out a despised gruff voice from behind. “Can’t you see he’s at duty? Do you want to make him an even worse candidate than he already is?”

            She turned to see that it was Ser Alliser.

            He overlooked her. “Sam, have you scrubbed those tables by the doors?”

            “Why, y-yes, ser. I did.”

            Ser Alliser hissed. “I don’t think you did. Better go over it, again. Just to be sure.”

            Sam hesitated before taking bucket and rags and beginning to take off towards the doors.

            “Ah” Ser Alliser said, with a held out hand, stopping Sam in his tracks. “There is a girl present and you’re taking leave without addressing it? Is that how Lord Tarly raises his whelps?”

            “Pardon me, my Lady.”

            Ser Alliser rubbed his brow and chuckled. “Do you know anything, Tarly? This girl is no _lady_. She is the natural born daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. And how do they address the natural born in the north?”

            He had looked to Jeyne to answer his last question. Her teeth gritted as she gave her answer. “Snow.”

            “So, you would say ‘Pardon me, Snow’. Say it.”

            Sam looked at Jeyne, who looked right back at him. He shook his head slowly.

            “Say it.”

            “You can say it, Sam. It’s my name.”

            “Pardon me, Snow.”

            “Fine. Now, leave us.”

            With some hesitation, he did so.

            Jeyne looked away from the two of them though Ser Alliser addressed her.

            “I looked upon your beast the other day.” She slowly looked back up at him. “It’s growing so big. I’ve heard it said direwolves can grow bigger than a moose. I don’t think a kennel will be able to hold it much longer. It will grow wild in that cage. The unwieldy beast it is and my blade will be waiting for it. Or my crossbow. Whichever I deem best for the job.”

            “Ser” she said with a nod she found hard to do as she turned away from him with a grinning Chrissen at her side. They began to stride from the hall.

            “Give my regards to your beast, my lady” he called after her, giving her slight pause.

 

            She was out in the courtyard, simply watching the birds in the sky. She had little else to do and she felt stifled in that room with Poole’s quiet despair. In truth, she had been mighty somber herself lately. Chrissen was seated on a nearby pile of grain under cover of an awning. He grinded a dagger of his against a whetstone and shook his head just looking at her.

            She saw mostly crows in the skies but there were occasionally larks and ravens as well.

            “What are you doing?” asked some boy’s voice nearby to her right.

            She turned on them and saw the delinquent boys Pypar and Grenn. She tensed at the sight of them.

            “What are you doing here?”

            “We mean no harm, we swear” the shorter, skinnier Pypar offered up. “Tell her!”

            Grenn the stockier one pulled his lip down and opened his mouth. “I lost teeth ‘cuz of you.”

            “Idiot!” Pypar shouted. “Not that!”

            Jeyne turned and called out to Chrissen. “Would you do something about this?”

            Chrissen waved her off with his blade. “It finally turned interesting!”

            “Useless!” Jeyne muttered, turning back to the two as she reached into her seam pocket for her dagger.

            “What I mean t’ say” Grenn went on, waving his hands in surrender, “is we did a bad thing and you knocked out my teeth! So, we’re even!”

            “Even?”

            “Did you see us in our cells” Pypar asked.

            “ _Everybody_ saw you in your cells.”

            “So you know we been punished for what we did” Pypar explained. “We suffered. We really did.”

            Grenn nodded eagerly and pointed at Pypar. “He tells it true! We suffered!”

            “Fine! You suffered. I’m leaving now …”

            Pypar dropped suddenly to his knees. “We’re sorry!” He stopped and noticed Grenn had not done this as well so he tugged at his ankles. Grenn took his meaning and dropped to his knees as well.

            “We’re sorry!” they both wailed before they went to babbling many other things.

            Jeyne looked over at Chrissen, who was laughing openly by this point. Even others who were doing normal duties such as shoveling snow and lugging building supplies, all stopped and  stared at the commotion.

            Jeyne threw up her hands. “Fine! Fine! Get up!”

            They settled down and rose to their feet at her behest.

            “Where’s the third one? The one with the beard?”

            “Rast?” Pypar said. “We stay away from him. He’s the one that dragged us in this mess.”

            “That one has no remorse.”

            _So he’s the real lowlife_. She scratched her scalp. “Well, I can’t be the one to forgive you. It wasn’t I that was harmed.”

 

 

            “So the short of it is the boys are apologizing.”

            She was laid in bed while Jeyne Poole was at the desk, knitting away at a cloak.

            “What boys?”

            _She wasn’t listening. This conversation will go well_.

            “The boys from the long cells.”

            Jeyne Poole ceased all activity and lowered the needles to the desk. _Here it comes._

“The … long cells?” She asked with trepidation in her voice. “The … boys who attacked me?”

            “Two of the three. Grenn and Pypar.”

            The girl caught on to that. “You know their names? You’ve been … friendly with them?”

            “They seemed remorseful” Snow said, propping herself up on her elbows to consider her companion.

            Poole swallowed and turned to her. “Jeyne, look at me, please.” Snow sat up and looked at Poole as she requested. “I am not fine with this.”

            Snow slid down the bed towards the foot of it so that they were close. “Listen. I was angry too. It was a terrible thing. A despicable act. However, the two I speak of seem to be remorseful and I think a positive response will make our time here more bearable.”

            “More bearable?” Poole chuckled. Her face reverted back to a serious expression after a moment’s hesitation. “Would _you_ accept their apology?”

            Without trying to patronize or antagonize her, Jeyne kept her answer simple. “Yes, I would. They will ask at supper tonight.”

            “I see.” She turned back to her letter.

            “Will you accept their apology?”

            “I’m thinking that perhaps I will.”

 

             

             

 

            That night, in the common hall, Lord Commander Mormont had the girls sup closer to himself. He told himself it was simply to converse and watch the girls in a relaxed setting though he knew it was because he would blame himself should anything happen to them and he didn’t trust Night’s Watch as much as he did in the past.

            “How are you liking your meal, girls?” He asked, unsure of how to begin.

            The meal was a far cry from Tyrion Lannister’s feast. A salad of beets, onion and spinach leaves; half-molded bread with tomato soup and hacks of lamb with more bone than meat with a side of potatoes, steamed and chopped. It was all seasoned well with a spice mix and onion as well as salted vinegar oil for the salad. Jeyne supposed if nothing else, the cook could make a horrid meal edible and a fine meal divine. Three-Finger Hobb, she had heard him called once.

            “It’s hearty and delicious” Jeyne complimented. “Please give my thanks to the cooks.”

            Jeyne Poole hesitated as she played with her potatoes with one of her forks. It took her a moment to realize that everybody nearby was silent and Jeyne, Mormont, Ser Alliser and Ser Jaremy were looking at her. “…The soup is nice and hot. Great shield against the cold. Give the cooks my thanks as well.”

            Ser Alliser paused before he began laughing. Poole shifted uncomfortably and sipped at her water.

            “The two of you are like marionettes, dancing to a tune at another’s whim” Ser Alliser said. “I can’t imagine a boy losing his vows for such little dolls. Well, now that I consider it; perhaps a _stupid_ one.”

            “Ser, that’ll be enough” the Lord Commander said.

            Jeyne looked off towards the corner where Ghost usually sat with her meal. It didn’t seem right that the corner was empty. _My girl_.

            “Has there been word of my uncle yet, gentlemen?” she asked of the lord commander, Ser Jaremy, Ser Alliser, anybody that could answer. It was nearing a month since his departure and she had heard no word of reports which in her mind should be cause of concern.

            “Nothing yet, Jeyne” Ser Jaremy Rykker said to her. “But we do have rangers out on the search. They’re to find your uncle’s party or his campsite and report back.”

            “When are they due back?”

            “In the morning.”

            Jeyne dipped her head to them. “Then I humbly thank you and await the news.”

            “There is another matter I would discuss with you, Jeyne” he said, leaning forward. “The both of you girls, actually.”

            This drew renewed interest from both girls.

            The Lord Commander went on. “You are of the North, like me. I suppose that you follow the old gods as well?”

            “Yes, Jeor” Jeyne answered. Jeyne Poole agreed.

            “I trust that you seek their counsel and spiritual guidance” he put forth to them.

            “I haven’t prayed in quite a while” Jeyne admitted as she looked at the other Jeyne. “It would ease my mind, I think, as well as hers.”

            “I’ll admit that it has been longer for me yet” the Lord Commander said solemnly before he explained. “The nearest godswood before the Wall is leagues down the road. Much too far to warrant a trip, I’m afraid. However, there is one close _beyond_ the Wall, in the haunted forest. If I were to say you could pray in those woods, would you agree to that?”

            Jeyne Poole was apprehensive. She never had any desire to go beyond the Wall. She didn’t know if the tales of giant snow bears, spiders larger than horses, or the Others were true but they frightened her regardless. She also knew that the wildlings were real. She didn’t want to go past the Wall, even for communion with the old gods. She began to say so, “Lord Commander, I really don-“

            “Yes, we’ll do it” Jeyne said quickly and Jeyne Poole was immediately frustrated with her again.

            “I’m glad” he said. “We have a small sept for new brothers to swear their vows before the eyes of the Seven. We also allow those who wish to do so, swear their vows in the haunted forest. The next time we have one of those who wish to swear before the new gods, I’ll send for you.”

            “Thank you” Jeyne said, dipping her head. “May the old gods bless you. May I ask, though, why wait until another avowal?”

            Ser Alliser snarled. “Because he’s the Lord Commander, girl, and that’s what he damn well told you.”

            Mormont raised a hand. “Ser Alliser, _please_. Because, Jeyne, there is a measure of danger involved and I would not endanger your lives as well as that of a new brother so lightly. I would rather group you together and make as little unnecessary trips as possible.”

            She nodded. She was fine with that explanation.

            Ser Alliser shook his head. He raised his cup of sour wine to his mouth but groaned and lowered it again as he looked past Jeyne’s head. “Ohh, what is _this_ now?”

            Jeyne gave a sly smile and sipped her water. Grenn, Pypar and even Rast, whom they had to drag along, approached their table.

            “Lord Commander, I beg your pardon for this intrusion” Pypar said to the lord commander as Jeyne mentally mouthed with him the words she had told him to say, “And you as well, Sers, and strong brothers of the Night’s Watch.”

            Pypar looked to Grenn who looked at them blankly until Pypar bumped him with his elbow, reminding him that he would have to speak too. “We wish to apologize to the fair lady here, Jeyne Poole.”

            Everybody seemed to look at the young girl who froze with a forked strip of meat in mid-air. She lowered the food back to her plate.

            “I am going to crack your skulls if-“ Ser Alliser began until the Old Bear interrupted him yet again.

            “Will you settle yourself, _Ser_ ” he said. “Gods! Carry on, boys!”

            Jeyne Poole gave him a distressed look. She really didn’t want anything to do with them.

            “Jeyne Poole, we can never take back our crude actions” Pypar carried on. “But from here on out, you will have no trouble from us. Just say the word, and we’ll run at the sight of ya.”

            “Yes, I as well” said Rast, eager to throw himself in there just so he could be done with it.

            “Will you forgive us?” asked Grenn.

            Jeyne Poole continued to eat before she raised her cloth to wipe her mouth. She turned to them. “No” she said finally. “I won’t ever forgive any of you. But I trust that you will honor your proclamation and run from me on sight. Good evening to you.” She nodded to them before turning away.

            Pypar looked at Jeyne Snow with uncertainty, whom shook her head and gestured for them to leave with her head. The three of them did so.

 

            Jeyne Snow knelt before the fireplace in their room when Jeyne Poole came up behind her.

            “It was you, wasn’t it?” Jeyne Poole asked her. “The boys.”

            Jeyne stood and slipped out of her fur. “Yes.”

            Jeyne Poole took the fur from her hands and folded it. “Why should I forgive them? Why meddle?” She walked over and placed it in Jeyne’s wardrobe.

            “Because it would be easier for us here if we had friends” Jeyne told her. Poole gestured for her to turn around.

            Poole began unlacing Jeyne’s dress along her back. “Easier for us?” she asked. “Or for you?”

            Jeyne didn’t answer, affected by her words. She began pulling the dress down her shoulders and the rest of her body when she heard Poole’s footsteps begin to retreat from her. “Jeyne, wait.”

            Poole turned back.

            “You … will be cold in there, won’t you?”

            Her eyes shifted back towards the door. “I suppose so …”

            “Sleep in my bed tonight, with me. Share my fire.”

            Jeyne Poole was caught off-guard. “Jeyne …”

            “I would not have my steward miserable. Please.”

            Poole looked to the fire and considered it. It would be warm and it’s an actual bed. “Yes. I will.”

 

 

** Daeron **

 

 

 

Their trip was not without its troubles. Daeron was weak from his injuries; the injuries to his hind leg and back in particular limited his walk speed and glued him to Jorah’s shoulder. Of course, that caused considerable strain to her over time. She gave him medication for the pain but that only did so much and he just wasn’t physically capable. They remained in wooded areas to do most of their traveling. Daeron was mostly naked beneath his poultices and blanket covering and he found the environment hard on his feet. He managed to step on a needle or two. Finally, Jorah measured his boot size compared to hers. She had him sit on a log and put her long boots on him.

            “This may be a bit tight” Jorah told him as she lifted it up his ankle. “You’re growing quite big for someone so young.”

            “That’s what Visenya used to say.” He answered before realizing that she would be barefoot. “What about you?”

            “Don’t worry about me” Jorah said. “The outdoors are my real home. Needles and rocks are nothing against my calluses. I got them young and they never went away.”

            Jorah decided that they would travel mid-way through both the day and night and use the afternoon and early hours of dark for rest. During their second period of such rest, she brought back two rabbits after a hunt for them to cook in a small fire. They only cooked in the daytime so they had to be patient. He found the meat tough and bland with no seasoning but it was food so he ate all the same without complaint.

            “When did you get so good at killing?” he asked her after their fire was long put out.

            “I never thought I was particularly good at it” she said, “but long before I was a lady-in-waiting, my father raised me to fight raiders. You see, Bear Island, is quite isolated actually. It’s low in resources but open to invasion from ironborn and ship faring wildlings.”

            “Yet you were a lady-in-waiting.”

            “Yes, but not a traditional one, I’m afraid. _My_ suitors were to be second sons or knights with little claim, willing to settle for husbandry.”

            “Why?”

            “Because unfortunately, your grace, I was born a woman and my father had no heir. My aunt Maege, his only sibling, produced only daughters as well. He didn’t consider taking another wife after mother passed so he named _me_ his heir. My father shipped me off to King’s Landing to find a husband. ‘Be sure he is strong, Jorah, so that he doesn’t blow over in the wind!’” She laughed a bit at the memory before she sighed and went on. “So, I went to court and presented myself. Ohhh, I was fetching in those days.”

            “You’re still very pretty, Jorah.”

            She chuckled. “Well, thank you, but those days were my _prime_. I stood out, even amongst Targaryen royalty, some said. Perhaps, too much. I ended my service with your mother and left court without a husband. I ended up marrying another northman, Rowen Glover, a cousin of his lord with little claim. I was made Lady of Bear Island and he was simply my husband. I even got to keep my name. He was a decent man. We were wed ten years; we had a decent life together but our coupling bore no fruit. When he died, I didn’t expect to wed again but I did … eventually …”

            She paused. He couldn’t make out her expression in the darkness but he noted her hesitation in continuing. “Jorah, are you alright?”

            She sighed. “How did I get to talking about this? You should try to rest, prince. I’ll keep an eye out for us.”

            Daeron let it rest and did indeed try to sleep.  

            Two days on in travel, the two of them came across a cart with cargo that was tarped with white cloth and pulled by two horses. The driver was seated up front alongside a young girl Daeron presumed to be his daughter. The old driver was weathered and tanned; he wore a circular brimmed, straw hat to ward off the sun as well as simple cloth clothing of common folk. The girl wore an azure dress with white lining beneath as well as black slippers. She kicked her feet playfully as they hung in the space between themselves and the horses.

            Daeron stood up to go to them but Jorah sensed this and immediately pulled him back down into the leaves, hidden in the hanging branches of their green haven. She held a hand over his mouth as he gave alarmed cry and tried to ask why she would do that only for it to be muffled. She held a finger to her own lips to quiet him.

            “Did you hear that, papa?” the girl asked her father. She turned her head back in the direction of the rustling though she couldn’t make them out in the foliage as Jorah had stilled the prince.

            “Eyes forward, girl” he told her. “There be bandits and Dothraki lurking in these woods most like. Best not bring ‘em round.” He flicked out his reins over his horses and the cart pushed out at an increased rate down the road.

            Jorah waited until they were a ways down the road before releasing Daeron.

            “Why? They could help us.”

            She shook her head. “It’s much too dangerous. We can’t trust them. He would think us bandits and treat us with hostility. I wouldn’t blame him either.”  

            She pulled him away from the road; she need only know where it was and its direction for she knew where they were going. Daeron’s pain gradually came on and the dosage of medicine she kept on her wasn’t sufficient enough to dull most of it. That didn’t concern her too greatly, however, since they were actually quite close.

            Later, the two of them heard hard beats on the ground from the road that were advancing parallel to them. The beats became recognizeable as the clopping of hooves, accompanied by neighing and Dothraki war cries.

            “Outriders” Jorah confirmed to Daeron and she held them in place as she waited for them to pass. Then she waited some more.

            The danger did not stop there as luck would have it, as eventually they heard same wild shouting from outriders as well as more shouting and screaming in the Common Tongue. What followed were the alarmed cries of horses and the clanging of metal against wood and ripping of fabric.

            “Those people!” Daeron said to Jorah. “They’re being attacked!”

            “We can’t help them.”

            “But-

            “We _can’t_ help them. Come on.” She pulled him farther up the path parallel to the ongoing savaging. The girl’s screams soon became wails and then suddenly went silent. They eventually heard retreating hoof beats as if the Dothraki were leaving. They came to a point where they could see bit of the clearing through to the road behind them and Daeron saw a wheel from the cart lying on its side. 

            He turned to Jorah and spoke quietly. “We could’ve helped them surely.”

            She looked pained. “With luck, I could _maybe_ deal with two men in the open field. But I could not have protected you _and_ them. I’m sorry, your grace.”

            He considered it. He decided that she was right. She could only do so much. He didn’t like it but he would have to accept that those people had been killed. He would try to forget it just like he tried his hardest to forget that his sister had been beaten, raped and ultimately turned against him. She supported him as they advanced farther into the foliage. He winced every so often.

            “Go on. Tell me where you intend to take me.”

            They would stop at a cottage at an out of the way location in the woods. It housed a common folk family from the Seven Kingdoms that were old friends to Jorah. There Jorah would nurse and tend to Daeron’s wounds properly. After Daeron was well enough, they would make for Pentos.

            “We will seek aid with Illyrio Mopatis, who can provide us a ship.”

            _The Magister_. “No. We can’t go to him. He’s the one who sold my sister.”

            Jorah had him stop on a soft mound against a tree. She thought it was best that they rest for a while anyway as they were both growing weary.

            “Your grace” she said, as she drew a deep breath. “Illyrio is your only ally left that can help us.”

            “There must be someone else. I was told that the people of Westeros wished for the return of the dragon.” Jorah downcast her eyes and began shaking her head. “That they carried our banners in secret. So … that too was a lie.”

            Jorah looked back up at him. “I’m sorry, your grace. Your father was … a spiteful king and he was hated by the people. By most accounts, Robert’s rebellion was very much welcome.”

            _The Usurper_. “H-how could they? He slaughtered all of us. Even the children.”

            She reached out and cradled his head. “Do not blame them, your grace. They don’t see that; the crown’s propaganda doesn’t allow it. All they saw was the deposed king they despised. Mopatis will give us a ship and crew. We will sail to where King Robert will not find us. One of the Summer Isles or any nameless islands among them.”

            Daeron considered it before nodding. “Illyrio. I don’t like him nor do I trust him.”

            “That would be wise, your grace. But we have no other choice.”

            “And Robert Baratheon is no king. He murdered his way to the throne. I don’t recognize that.”

            Jorah said nothing.

            “Why are you helping me?” he finally asked her. “Now. I have nothing. No claim. No allies. No _family_. Why do all this for me?”

            Jorah looked at him steadily. “I don’t have anything anymore, either. But you’re _her_ son. Rhaella Targaryen was a dear friend of mine and you’re her last living legacy. You remind me so much of her. So sensitive, gentle and kind but _strong_. Even amongst all this ugliness. I will see you safe, no matter what. I promise.”

 

            It was another day and a half of walking and limping before Jorah came upon her friends’ estate. It was the end of a trail out of the way from the main market road and seemingly buried in dense forest. Daeron was on his last legs; she had driven him hard seeing as they were so close. When the young daughter, Cora, saw them while picking fruit from their vineyard, she immediately took off towards the cottage at the end of the trail. She had long, pale hair braided in a single tail with a white ribbon tied neatly near the end; her braid and ribbon trailed high in the wind behind her.

            “Papa! Papa!” the girl shouted as the basket she carried waved in the wind as well as her dress.

            Despite his pain, Daeron managed a perplexed look at Jorah.

            She gave a sly half-smile back and adjusted his arm over her shoulder. “Come on. Just a little farther.”

            When they were nearing the cottage, her old friend Horace, hurried out of the house with Cora.

            “Jorah, who be the boy?”

            “Help me get him inside. Grab his legs.”

            He reached down and grabbed him from behind the thighs first. Daeron winced.

            “Careful.” Jorah warned him. “He’s wounded behind the thigh.”

            Horace adjusted his grip to behind the knees as Jorah helped carry him into the house. Cora laid multiple layers of sheets for him upon the beds in one of their rooms. Jorah put multiple pillows under his head. She yanked her boots off of his feet and began removing the poultices from his body, drawing blood and fluid residue with them.

            Jorah turned to Cora, whom was sickened by the sight. “Cora, bring me your herbal jars and a lot of bandages. Water after that.”

            Cora ran to retrieve that when Jorah turned to Horace. “Help me turn him over. Careful with the arm. It’s broken.”

            Horace sighed as they turned Daeron on his front side and pulled more of the sticky poultices away. The open welts on his back were pink and ripe though they were blood red before so therefore better. Horace sniffed and groaned.

            “He smells downright foul!”

            She squeezed one of his welts, producing yellow pus. “I’ll handle all the care. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

            “Sorry, Jorah. Just be stating is all. Who be the boy anyway?”

            She paused. “Daeron Targaryen.”

            “Jorah!”

            “Enough, Horace! Just help me.” Cora brought the herbal jars and cotton wraps. She later returned with more supplies such as water and bowls. Jorah sent her away to boil milk of the poppy.

            She mashed her poultices together into a lathery paste in a large bowl. When Cora returned with a cup of the poppy, Jorah had Daeron drink it and put him back out. Cora and Horace left him alone while Jorah took soap powder, a scrub brush and towels and scrubbed his whole body clean. She then spread the paste over all his wounds and manipulated his body so that she could wrap his back and thigh in large rolls of bandages. She then had Horace help her move Daeron so that Cora could change the sheets and pillows again before they laid him back down on his back. Cora took all of the supplies away while Jorah returned to check on Daeron.

            Horace went to leave and turned back towards her. “I’ll put sup on. Come out when ye’ done.”

            Jorah nodded and he closed the door behind him.

            She knelt at Daeron’s side and watched his peaceful rest. She was glad she could give that to him at last. She reached and stroked his chopped hair; despite being a diminished, crudely cut form, his hair still shone like bundled gossamer. He looked over his face. _He’s still so beautiful despite the tragedy_. She leaned in and kissed his lips lightly but drew away when he stirred. She stopped and studied him as he went back to ease. She brought herself close and cradled his head as she continued to kiss him tenderly multiple times until he moaned into her mouth.

            She backed away slightly when he then muttered, “Visenya … _why_ …?”

            Somewhat ashamed of herself, she backed away and sat down in the corner of the room by the door. She lowered her head into her knees and burst into tears, releasing all of the pent up emotions from the past few days.

 

            After having a bath herself and dressing in a fresh brown dress and boots, she came down Horace’s stairs to a meal.

“I thank you for this meal” she said as she sat down at Horace’s table to a bowl of deer stew with onions, carrots, leeks and peas thrown in. _May the old gods bless it and make it filling_.

            Horace watched her as she blew on her food and ate for a while. “Jorah, what will ye’ do with the boy?”

            She didn’t answer for a while, only looking at him when he called her name a second time. “I suppose” she said, twirling her spoon as if considering it, “I’ll leave him to the King …eventually.”

            Horace lowered his head, letting out an exhale in relief. Even Cora, who stood away from the table but watched as she washed some sheets in a bucket, gave an uneasy small laugh.

            “I’m glad” he said with a hand over his heart. “We thought ye’ might’ve taken liking to him.”

            “I’ve nothing against the boy” she said as she paused from eating, “but he stands between me and home.”

            “Glad to hear it” Horace said, looking at Cora. “We all are. Brannen, too.”

            “How is the oaf, anyway?” Jorah asked. “Is he coming back from market today?”

            Horace’s smile faded somewhat. “We don’t expect so, no.”

 

            Days later, Daeron was sitting up in bed with a bowl of broth while Jorah was fussing over him, looking over his chest and back bandages.

            “I’ll give those bandages another day before I change them.” She told him. “Right, so how are you feeling?”

            “Better.” He told her with a smile. “All thanks to you.”

            “Can you walk properly now?”

            “There’s tightness in my leg … and behind.” Daeron admitted.

            “And your arm?”

            “It’s especially stiff. Feels odd.”

            “It will. It will. I’ll give it another week before we head out.”

            She stood up from the chair.

            “Illyrio” he said.

            “Yes.”

            He shook his head. “And what if he betrays us?”

            “Then I’ll kill him.” She told him simply enough.

 

            Daeron was walking around before too long. He came into the kitchen wearing a cloth shirt and pants over his bandages and was greeted to a round of applause. Brannen had joined him by then; he was a rotund, black-bearded man who practically smiled every second that was available in the day. He clapped along with Cora and Horace.

            Daeron limped over to the table. “I cannot express enough how thankful I am to you for sharing your home and your care. You have been most gracious.” He shifted his attention to the rays of the sun peeking through their kitchen window. “You have such a beautiful home. Thank you again for sharing it with me.”

            They sat and watched him as he suddenly became unsure of himself. That was until Jorah pulled out the chair beside her. “Come, Daeron” she said to him. “Come eat. You need your strength.”

            “Daeron Targaryen!” exclaimed Brannen as he sat down and Cora fetched him a plate of food. “I’ve always wondered what happened to you. How you made out in the world. I’m Brannen! This be my man, Horace, and our sweet girl, Cora! We be a family of merchants! Horace tends to the vineyards and makes the goods. I sell the damn stuffs and Cora cares for us both. She’s practically the only thing keeping us running. We’d sure lose all hope if not for her, our sweet goddess.”

            “Oh, papa” Cora said as she set Daeron’s plate of beaten eggs, blood sausage, lemon-sprinkled onions, peppers and tomato bits and a small portion of sugared gruel, before him. Daeron saw then why they lived so comfortably with a cottage that was very nearly a manse with a stable, farm and vineyard. They were merchants and apparent successful ones at that. Yet another thing confused him and that was that Cora had called Brannen father. He vaguely remembered the girl calling Horace this as well.

            Brannen saw the look on Daeron’s face. “Oh, I see the wheels spinning in that pretty head of yours. Out with it, then. I know you have questions.”

            Daeron struggled to say. “Y- _you’re_ her father?”

            Brannen looked across the table at Horace and slid his hand towards him on the tabletop surface. Horace placed his on top, caressing the delicate veins and bones of the back of his palm. “We _both_ are.”

            Daeron looked at the both of them in turn.

            Brannen looked at Daeron with an almost apologetic smile and reluctantly pulled away from Horace. “I forget myself, prince. I apologize if I have disturbed you.”

            Daeron shook his head, slightly uncomfortable but empathetic regardless. “N-no, I’m not. This is your home. I am but a guest.”

            “Aye, but the greatest guest to ever set foot in our humble home” Brannen said. “Prince Daeron Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne that your very family forged in steel and fire. I should be ashamed as such a display.” He looked back to Horace. “But even before you, I cannot contain my love for this man. It’s a precious thing, love is. Fleeting. Comes and goes as it wills. So when you glimpse it, you best grab it and hold on for as long as you can. It’s more precious than gold, diamonds or magic because you may see it but once and then never again in your lifetime. Most haven’t at all. We are among the truly blessed.”

            Horace pursed his lips at him. “Ye’ big oaf.”

            Cora watched all of this with a big smile as she rested her chin on one arm on the table.

            Daeron was touched by the affection. He had never seen anything like it in all of his life. Never even between a man and a woman, let alone two men. He wondered if he could ever experience something like that.

 

            “They came with me from across the narrow sea” Jorah told him she changed his bandages alone in the room they shared. “I brought a few of my close friends with me from my lands, though who wished to leave with me. I set some up in different places with what little resources I had. Some perished sadly. These two thrived. In the Seven Kingdoms, men such as they are hunted down and subject to more violent atrocity than you would expect a rapist or traitor. Here, on Essos, they are free to do as they please.”

            She eyed Daeron’s back wounds. They had grown deep purple and would soon fully heal and darken to their scarred form. He would have terrible scarring and deep tissue pain for the rest of his life.

            “The daughter is neither of theirs by seed” she went on as she rubbed a pleasant numbing balm over his back. “Her family was ravaged by wildlings but she was taken in by Horace; and Brannen accepted them both. I try not to burden them with my presence and leave them in peace. But I am unlucky in my endeavors often and sometimes need their help. They are gracious to oblige. Tomorrow, we leave for the Free Cities.”

           

            Cora gave Daeron a sweet kiss on the cheek before they departed, which he thought a welcome surprise. Brannen loaded Jorah and him in the back of his covered wagon alongside rope secured barrels of wine, beer and fruit. He was laid on a cushion fortress of blankets and pillows and slept often.

            In his dreams, he bore witness to a pale blue rose blooming rapidly as if days went by in seconds. At full bloom, it was the most beautiful flower he had ever seen; only it then caught flame and blackened before wilting and shrinking to nothingness under the heat of fire. He even saw the stone eggs again, only they did not seem so alive as they had before. When the fire cracked them, they split apart to no fanfare and were as brittle as chicken egg shells. Instead of embers spilling forth, blood spilled from the cracks and poured over the sand beneath them.

            “Dae’!” Visenya called out for him as he stepped into their bedchamber from the baths. In those days, they shared a bed and a bath though they fared better in those days and lived in a manor with Lyseni nobles. She patted the spot next to her in bed. She saw that she had another large tome with her. He laughed and scurried over to climb in. He loved when they would read together.

            “Did we ever read of the Blackfyre Rebellion?” she asked him with a smile.

            He shook his head no.

            “Well, it was one of many conflicts our great dynasty inflicted upon itself. Some say it began with an unworthy Targaryen king who was too lusty.”

            “Lusty?”

            “Some say it began when illegitimate heirs were raised up. Do you know what _I_ say?” She flicked him playfully on the nose.

            “What?” He laughed and swiped her hand away.

            “It began with a forbidden love between a princess and a knight.”

            “Aren’t they all like that?”

            “You have no idea.”

            He awoke many times from sleep having to wipe the water from his eyes and cheeks.

 

            He thought of the old man and his daughter from the road and worried for their own safety. However, four sellswords on horseback joined them just before Qohor. They stopped and lodged in almost every city they came across. Jorah kept Daeron from wandering the streets at length, which wasn’t difficult because the wagon moved most of the day. Jorah managed to send a courier to deliver a message Magister Illyrio in Pentos in preparation for their imminent arrival.

            “We have to be careful, your grace” Jorah reminded him one night. “Drogo has eyes in Pentos. It’s likely his strongest presence in the Free Cities.”

            “I don’t like that we’re going there at all.” Daeron told her.

 

            The group made it to Illyrio’s gates days later. There were two Unsullied on guard.

            “We’re here” announced Jorah, who helped Daeron down to the ground.

            “Tell the Magister that Jorah Mormont has arrived” she told one of the guards. That guard in turn spoke aloud in High Valyrian and another guard on the other side of the gates that neither Jorah nor Daeron had seen previously began trekking across Illyrio’s garden towards his manse.

            “All good here, Jorah?” Brannen asked from the wagon’s head.

            “Yes, you’ve been too kind, Brannen” she replied. “I’ll send word if I need your help again.”

            “Of course, Jorah” Brannen said before looking to Daeron and dipping his head. “It was a pleasure to have you, prince, and best of luck to you.”

            “Thank you so very much, Brannen” Daeron said and nodded graciously. “Best of luck to you as well.”

            Brannen tapped his driver and the wagon set off again.

            “Your grace! Welcome!” Daeron turned towards the refined, measured voice and he saw him. A near obese man approached with gemstone rings on every finger, wearing an embroidered windy robe of fine crimson silk that was just fine for the weather and extravagant; Daeron even found his long, forked beard ridiculous. He balled his fists tight, even though it caused uncomfortable pressure to his still healing arm. The Magister, Illyrio Mopatis. _This man. Sold my sister_. _Whored her to Drogo._

Seeming to read his mind, Jorah immediately warned Daeron. “Your grace” she whispered, “we need Illyrio’s aid. Please be gracious and do not provoke him. I beg this of you.”

            Illyrio had a retinue of two magisters, several noblewomen from Pentos and other Free Cities and some fair maidens. He waved to one of his nearby servants and they opened the gates for Daeron and Jorah. When the two approached, the entire retinue bowed before him.

            _Well they’re certainly making a show of it_ , thought Daeron.

            “Your grace, I am in your service and at your command” Illyrio said with his head bowed. “I, Illyrio Mopatis, a magister of great Pentos swear this to you.”

            Daeron looked them over for a moment and looked to Jorah. She looked back expectantly. “You may rise” he told them.

            Illyrio stood and walked to them. “Good king, I have heard of the quarrel between you and your sister, the princess and Khaleesi of Drogo’s horde. May cooler heads prevail and the two of you come to a peace.”

            _What is he playing at? I was an afterthought to him before. Visenya was the pampered one. He all but crowned her queen in my presence._

Daeron sighed and squeezed a fistful of his trouser legs with his left hand. “Yes. Peace. I wish for that as well.” He remembered Visenya standing over his bound form. Is that what they had come to? Another Dance of the Dragons? Rhaenyra and Aegon II come again? He didn’t want that.

            Illyrio stepped forth and cradled the boys head in both hands. “Do not worry, king” he assured him. “I will do everything in my power to help you to the Throne.” Daeron’s eyes shifted to Jorah for a second. _I don’t want the damned throne_.

            Illyrio kissed him on both cheeks. Daeron could smell heavy perfume on him that still failed to hide his sweaty musk underneath. He then stepped away and turned towards his manse and the other wealthy. “Come, your grace. I will feed you and treat you to my divine hospitality. Then we can discuss _royal_ matters.”

 

            It seemed like a lifetime ago but he had been in a similar position before; Illyrio’s servants took fine shears to his previously long hair to even out his crude haircut though it had grown since the encounter with Drogo. They stripped him of his clothes and bandages before easing him into a treated bath that soothed his wounds. They tried to help him scrub but he didn’t let them go that far. Afterwards, they helped him dry and oiled his wounds before wrapping his them in fresh, thinner bandages. Afterwards, they doused him partially in a masculine perfume and slipped him into a tunic, underpants and trousers of white satin and ankle-length sandals. Again, they slid rings of ruby, emerald and sapphire on his fore, middle and ring fingers. He imagined they would’ve given him earrings if his ears were pierced and smiled despite himself thinking of it. He looked into a looking glass and considered his healed yet torn left ear.

            When they were finished, they knelt to the floor. “Anything further, your grace?” one asked.

            Daeron shook his head. “Nothing further. You may leave me now.”

            They stood and turned heel for the double doors. Daeron watched them; he expected and found that he wished that Visenya would stride right on past them looking well and wearing some provocative dress to torment him yet again. The doors closed without that happening. He sighed and looked about the room, feeling lost and alone again. He walked out onto the open landing as his back tightened again; it was bearable so he ignored it. He rested his left hand on the edge.

            He stared out over the city, a tight arrangement of rich manors and baronies, through rare violet eyes. But those rare violet eyes saw more than the property of wealth; they saw the markets, various merchants shouting and trying to attract consumers to their wares, a prostitute in a fine, revealing gown standing before a brothel, beggars and homeless on the street; they also saw three Dothraki riders riding their stallions through the city at a walking pace. He slowly backed away from the landing at the sight of this.

            “Your grace!” Jorah called from within the room after she entered through the doors. Daeron walked inside to meet her.

            “Jorah …” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw her. She wore a thin, deep green diagonally cut dress with thin straps over the shoulders that stopped just above the knee; her sandals ran up and buckled at the knees, meeting the bottom of her dress; she wore bronze armlets and bangles as well as golden earrings that dangled emerald stones; her dark blonde hair, though usually long and down to her shoulder blades, was rolled pulled into a curled bun behind her neckline and pinned with hidden rods. She also had leather sash that went around her waist with a dagger attached on her hip. Her skin was oiled and her eyelids shaded black. She certainly caught Daeron’s attention; he had always seen her dress modestly or filthy recently. As she stood before him, she could fit the role of any noblewoman in Essos or as her former role as Lady of Bear Island with a coat. She was dressed far too scandalous for court in Westeros.

            “I will sit and discuss things with Illyrio” she said as she neared him. “My intention is still to buy us board on a ship for the Summer Isles. He is planning a great dinner tonight in your honor. All the magisters and possibly the Prince of Pentos will be there. You have some hours. You may rest if you like.”

            Daeron nodded. “Thank you, Jorah.”

            “I will come gather you when it is time.”

            With that, she turned and left his chambers.

 

           

            He remembered after he woke up later. Visenya had read him an account of the Blackfyre Rebellion in their youth. Aegon the Unworthy was a lecherous king who sired many bastards on noblewomen, princesses and smallfolk alike. On his deathbed, he had done the unthinkable and legitimized all of his bastards. All of them. The implications were severe and the worst potential outcome came to past. The realm bled for it.

            “The greatest of these bastards” Visenya recited to her young brother, “said to be more dragon than the Targaryens themselves was Daemon Blackfyre. So great his prestige that he sired his own noble house. He wielded our ancestral Valyrian sword Blackfyre and he had the love of his half-brother, King Daeron the second or Daeron the Good.”

            Daeron smiled. “Hey, that’s me!”

            Visenya giggled. “So it is. But the one thing Blackfyre coveted most of all was his half-sister, the sweet Princess Daenerys. King Daeron put aside lowly thoughts of romance and put the realm first by marrying Daenerys to Prince Maron of Dorne instead of his half-brother, Blackfyre. Dorne had long had tensions with the Iron Throne and the marriage united the Seven Kingdoms. Daemon was angered that he was denied his true love and rose in rebellion mainly because of this some say, though much later. Now who do you suppose was in the right?”

            Daeron thought on it. He supposed if he was Daemon Blackfyre he would be hurt to be denied the woman he loved without a thing to do about it. Yet …

            “King Daeron” he said. “He did what was best for the realm.”

            “That’s right” Visenya told him. “Sometimes we have to do the hard thing even if it hurts others. And we must accept when we lose out on what we really want for the greater good. That is the burden of the throne. Always be Daeron the Good. Never be Daemon Blackfyre.”

             

 

            “It’s time” Jorah called from the doorway and Daeron sat up in bed so quickly he caused himself pain. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep but the bed was entirely too comfortable. He didn’t want to compliment the magister on anything but he had to concede that.

 

 

 

 

** Jeyne **

 

 

 

 

Jeyne had a peculiar dream. The air was damp and tasted of rusted iron. She felt sorrow. The bitches and wretches cursed her forever and more. They never let her rest. They were afraid of her she knew. Yet she knew if they got a chance at her, they would rip at her. Never by themselves she knew but in a pack they were suddenly mighty. Fearful wretches. She felt hate at them but then why should she fear? She grew bigger and stronger every day. She was growing slower though because of her state. Still, she brings her fresh meat. That’s good. Would rather have her own. Miss the rip of flesh. Her senses are dulled there. Always the noise. She tries to growl back but they ignore her. Stupid. Sometimes, she feels the others. Her brothers and sisters. One sister is missing. When? She didn’t quite remember. She looks out of her hole to the world outside where she could glimpse the bright light; she could hear their calls. Calling for them to come together to be a pack again. She could answer but they wouldn’t hear her anyway. They could feel her, she knows and that would be enough. She would not go if the girl didn’t go either way. She knows the girl will come soon. She must not appear weak before her. She needs her strength. She must be strong for her.

 

            Jeyne’s eyes crept open in the morning. A silent awakening. She sniffled and wiped the wetness from her eyes. She peered over the side of the bed to find a simple rug. _Ghost. Forgive me, girl_. She turned in bed and saw Jeyne Poole sleeping peacefully facing away from her. The girl’s thick, dark brown hair lay spread behind her. It was almost as long as Jeyne’s and she thought it a wonder their hair hadn’t gotten tangled together in the night. She let her sleep and put her bare feet on the floor before she started to get ready for the day.

            She made water before taking to the bath area to conduct her morning hygiene. When she returned, she found Jeyne Poole was stirring awake.

            “Something tells me you don’t sleep very well in that crypt” Jeyne said to her.

            Poole slid the covers away and visibly shivered. “I suppose not.” She moved into a sitting position. “I slept well last night, however. Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome to join me every night.”

            She walked off to slip into her stockings and underdress while Jeyne Poole sat there to ponder it.

            Jeyne was somber as she sat before her looking glass while Jeyne Poole brushed the tangles from her hair, straightening it as best she could without oils. She helped Jeyne into a simple grey dress and tied it in the back.

            “You’re very good at this” Jeyne said to her as Poole applied small swaths of perfume to her cheeks and neckline before patting her cheeks with cosmetic powder.

            “Thank you” Jeyne Poole replied. “I used to help Sansa with this. She needed _all_ of the help she could get.”

            Jeyne smiled. “Sansa? Really?”

            Jeyne Poole smiled back. “Yes! She was helpless!” After a moment, she frowned. “I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget it.”

            Jeyne reached over and touched her wrist tenderly. “Jeyne, it’s quite alright. You’re safe with me.”

            Poole looked into her eyes for a moment before slipping her hand away and continuing. “No. I forget myself. Forget I said anything.”

            When she brought the bloody meat into the kennels, she found herself annoyed with the dogs’ ongoing barking. _Are you ever quiet? Give my girl her rest._ Ghost seemed in higher spirits than she had looked previously. She looked much more dignified as she tore the meat in her jaws. _And bigger. Gods, she’s getting so big now. I wonder how big she is compared to Shaggydog, Grey Wind and the others._ She then thought of Ser Aliser’s words and shivered.

“I won’t let them hurt you” she said, reaching in and rubbing Ghost’s jaw before the direwolf took her sleeve and played her tugging game. “I promise you that.”

            The two Jeynes slipped out to the yard alongside their guards Venyon and Chrissen, they saw that the younger recruits had been tasked with shoveling snow. Grenn, Pypar, Rast, Halder, Matthar and even Samwell Tarly were among them. Jeyne smiled at Pypar and Grenn but they quickly averted their eyes.

            On their way to the common hall, Jeyne had enough. She pulled took Jeyne Poole by the hand and pulled her towards Pypar and Grenn.

            “Jeyne …!” Poole cried out.

            The two boys looked at them alarmingly as Poole wrenched away from Jeyne before them.

            “Try again” Jeyne bid them.

            “What?” asked Pypar.

            “Apologize again.” Jeyne told them.

            Jeyne Poole turned on her. “You can’t force an apology!”

            “I’m sorry” Grenn offered to her.

            Jeyne Poole turned on _him_. “I don’t care!”

            “Accept their apology, Jeyne” Jeyne told her.

            “No!” Poole shouted at her. Jeyne moved away from her. “And I won’t even if you bid me to do so! Where do you get off, ordering an apology?! It’s improper! It’s-“

            Jeyne Poole had watched Jeyne kneel into the snow and gather some of it up. Without much warning, she stood and pelted Poole in the neck with a snowball.

            Poole gasped. “Oh! What are you doing?”

            “Accept their apology.” She threw another and hit Poole in the chest.

            “Stop it!” Poole shouted and turned away from her. “You’re mad!”

            Jeyne packed another and hit her in the back, spreading snow powder throughout her hair. “Maybe, but you’re still going to accept their apology!” She packed another, ready to go.

            Suddenly, a chunk of snow smashed into Jeyne’s face and she turned away.

            “Stop forcing things, Miss Jeyne!” Pypar shouted, having been the one to throw the snowball. “If the poor girl doesn’t want to forgive then – oh, d-did I hurt you? I’m so sorry!”

            Jeyne turned back around, holding her red cheek but flashing a wide, white-toothed smile.

            “Oh no!” Pypar said as he turned and tried to run before slipping and falling on his face in a pile. Jeyne chased him down, flinging at him the whole way. Suddenly, Grenn got into the fray; he dumped handfuls of snow on Jeyne’s head while she screamed in surprise before laughing.

            “This is happening” stated Chrissen coolly as he and Venyon stood apart from the fray.

            “Yes, it is.” Neither did anything.

            Soon enough, Halder, Matthar and some of the other young recruits joined in, hurling snow at each other. Rast saw this and simply flung his shovel down before walking away. Jeyne spotted Samwell in the corner of the yard, timidly watching, unsure of how to join even if he could. He yelped as Jeyne closed the distance.

            “What is this, Sam!” she panted as he fell backwards on his bottom. “You’re gonna let us girls have all the fun!” She scooping up snow from between her boots and tossed it all over him.

            Grenn and Pypar showed up, hurling snowballs at her. She yelped and ran away.

            “Away, you bully!” Grenn shouted after her.

            Pypar joined in. “You want to get to our brother, Sam, you’ll have to go through us!”

            Sam gave an awkward smile and stumbled to his feet.

            Ser Alliser saw all of this going on from the entrance to the common hall. “This is outrageous! I’ll have them packing snow on the _other_ side of the Wall for this!”

            Lord Commander Mormont was by his side. “No, you won’t.”

            “Lord Commander?”

            “Stand down, ser. You can stand to smile every once in a while yourself.”

            Ser Alliser looked at him and turned in a huff to go back inside the common hall where things were somewhat disciplined.

            The Old Bear stood outside and watched them enjoy themselves for he knew the hardship that awaited them. He could stand for a bit of fun chaos every now and then himself.

            Jeyne turned on heel a safe distance from Grenn and Pypar and reached down to prepare another attack. Jeyne Poole leapt onto her back and forced her weight down, slowly taking her lady to the ground with her. She then dug into the snow and began sifting it down over Jeyne’s head. Both girls laughed as Jeyne shook the ice from her hair though many flakes remained throughout. They looked around and many of the recruits were just flinging mounds of snow in the air, which resembled bursts of white shooting up from the ground. Jeyne imagined her Ghost coming to her amidst the ridiculousness and licking her face. She imagined she would’ve enjoyed the madness.

****

****

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** Daeron **

****

****

****

Jorah helped Daeron down the marble stairwell and Illyrio’s servants led the two outside to the dinner’s location: Illyrio’s grand garden. It was a long table underneath a large transparent veiled tent to keep the flies and insects away. They were led to the opening of the tent, whereupon Illyrio immediately stood at the sight of them.

            “Prince, magisters, guests of my home. I am proud to present to you, Prince Daeron Targaryen, the true heir of the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms.” Everybody’s eyes were on him; even most who were turned away, turned to face them. He was directed to his seat which wasn’t too far from being directed right across from Illyrio himself. The seats on either side of him were occupied and Jorah was led away to another seat farther down the table. He gave her an alarmed look and she mouthed to him that it would be alright.

            Eventually, he was served with a plate full of food and his cup was filled with red wine. He tasted it and was treated with a strong alcoholic flavor and a tart bitterness. He missed the frothy fermented milk immediately. Seated across from him was a fine woman though somewhat advanced in age in a fine, blue gown that exposed her right breast. He tried not to stare and set to eating his food. It was a fine meal and he was hungry. He struggled to avoid tearing at his meats and shoveling as much food as he could eat at once; everybody around him spoke in such a refined, cultured manner, making exceedingly polite overtures false or not. He feared he would appear savage and common if he gave in to his first impulse and that would ruin whatever hope Jorah had for him. He didn’t want to let her down more than anything else. Still, he could never quite hone in on any separate conversation around him; even when they spoke in Common Tongue, they spoke of trade agreements, imports and family lines. Things he had little to no knowledge of and they might as well have spoken in another language. He was ten and three but he felt even younger then; a child sitting amongst giants far stronger, smarter and more powerful than he was. That is how he felt. His nerves got to him and he was shaking as he lifted his cup. He powered through the bitter taste, finishing it outright. His head was swimming after that, though his aches were far less noticeable. It dimmed the voices around as well.

            “Your grace” Illyrio said to him, catching his attention after a while. “I have spoken to your guardian, Lady Jorah, at length.”

            Daeron raised his cup and turned. “More wine pl-“, a servant was on hand pouring more wine into his cup before he could finish. “Thank you” he said sheepishly before he gulped at it.

            “We have discussed the option of marriage for you, your grace” Illyrio went on, speaking in a drawn-out, theatric manner. “If you are to regain your rightful throne, it would serve you well to strike up an alliance. What better road to friendship is there than betrothal?”

            _Some things never change. He sold Visenya to the highest bidder and now he intends to do the same with me. Why all this interest in me? He already gave Visenya her army. What is there for me? Just let me go._

Illyrio pulled at one of the forks of his beard briefly before he went on. Daeron continued to drink. “Many powerful entities among the Free Cities are eager to lend their aid to a future king. You could have a fine dowry of riches. You could have ships, an army, anything you might need to invade the continent and usurp the one that usurped your family. There are some benefactors to such a pairing at this very table. The Prince of Pentos for instance, has a fine daughter that would make a splendid wife and a fine _queen_ if you so please.”

            Daeron’s eyes followed Illyrio’s gesture towards the centerpiece of the table which seated a richly-robed middle-aged, bearded man with a bejeweled headpiece atop his head. He sat in the grandest chair that adorned with gold and rubies. Daeron supposed that he was the Prince of Pentos, ruler of the city. He looked to his right, trying to find Jorah though he couldn’t see her from his seat without standing and looking for her, risking looking foolish in the process. He swallowed before looking back to Illyrio.

            “Don’t marry his daughter” the man to his immediate right whispered into his ear. “She walks into brothels all over the city and sells herself at a price she decides herself. All under the Prince’s nose. I’ve had her often … for cheap.” The man leaned back in his chair and cackled. Daeron ignored him.

            “I … will consider all options” he said to the magister, trying to sound as cordial and courteous as possible though he was vehemently against such a thing.

            _So I will end up owing everything to this magister and whatever rich noble puts me on the throne. Debts I can never repay_.

            “No maiden would deny that you are very fair, your grace” Illyrio said.

            “Yes” the noblewoman with the exposed breast agreed with a sneer. “ _Very_ fair.”

            Illyrio raised his cup towards Daeron. “To your throne” he toasted.

            Daeron raised his as well before he finished his wine with a wince. He quickly called for a refill.

            The night carried on and he didn’t eat but he did drink much more. He was beginning to feel drunk and found he didn’t enjoy the feeling. As he tried at eating to sober himself, he saw two Dothraki men stride right up to the table near the Prince of Pentos. Daeron stood and staggered away from the table, knocking over his chair and his cup. The noise caused murmurs and excited whispers from the other patrons. The Dothraki men as well as the prince looked at Daeron.

            Daeron, in turn, looked at Illyrio. “What is this? You intend to deliver me right to them?” He could have sworn that the Dothraki smiled at him.

            Illyrio held out a hand to soothe him. “I promise you, your grace, that isn’t the case.”

            Jorah had already risen from her seat and was by his side. He gently took his arm, though away from his injury. “Come on, your grace. Perhaps you should go to bed.”

            Daeron pulled away from her. “What do you mean? How can you sleep with Dothraki at this house? They’re probably Drogo’s people.”

            Illyrio spoke up then. “That’s exactly why you have nothing to fear. Khal Drogo would never show hostility as long as we pay tribute to his manse.”

            “What?” asked Daeron.

            “The noble magisters built a nine-towered manse and gifted it to Drogo” Jorah explained to him. ”They keep it stocked monthly with newly acquired riches and coin. It is part of a blood pact to keep Drogo from sacking the city or indulging in any violence within these walls.”

            “I assure you that it is very much safe” proclaimed another magister.

            Daeron stifled laughter, baffling some of those gathered. “I thought _I_ was pathetic for allowing Drogo to do what he did to my sister. For crawling back here to the man just as responsible. But I see now. You are all just as weak and stupid as me.”

            Jorah squeezed Daeron’s arm. “That is enough. You are making things worse.”

            That sent a lot of the table into an outrage. The Prince began shouting in High Valyrian. Another magister suggested that somebody cut Daeron’s tongue from his mouth.

            “I have seen Drogo truly!” Daeron shouted loudly. He repeated himself and they surprisingly began to quiet down. “I have looked into his eyes! There is nothing but darkness! His heart, his soul, even his blood; it’s all black! Do you really think Drogo cares that you throw a few good coins into a manse every month? Dominance and destruction is all he cares about! He’s laughing at you! And when he gets bored of it, he’ll ride through your gates and kill you all!”

            “Come, Daeron” Jorah told him as she nearly dragged him away.

            There was mostly silence at the table for they all feared Drogo despite having some belief that a pillage would ultimately fail.

            “There could be a million Dothraki, our fair city would hold.” He heard a magister say this.

            “You’re all fools if you believe that” Daeron said as parting words.

 

            “That was incredibly foolish of you” Jorah told him in his chambers while he was lying in bed. “We had one ally and we may have lost him.”

            Daeron sighed. “I know. But I couldn’t let it stand. Two Dothraki in the garden? And Drogo’s? No.”

            “Well, now we have nothing” Jorah said, sitting in a chair nearby. “Black Bear died for _nothing_.”

            He shook his head. He hadn’t considered the sacrifices that she and others in her stead had made for him. “I’m sorry.”

            She rubbed her hands together and pulled out the pins in her hair. She pulled her knotted hair loose. “We need to discuss what we do now.”

            He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the conversation.

            Somebody knocked on the door before it opened. To his dismay, Illyrio walked inside the room as his servants opened the door for him. “Sorry to intrude, your grace” Illyrio said with a bow, “I feel I have offended you and that was surely not my attention. I assure you that the Dothraki pose no danger to you here but they have been sent away regardless. I beg your forgiveness for this.”

            “What are you playing at, magister? Visenya is married to Khal Drogo. You have what you wanted. What is all of this folly about marrying me off and invading Westeros?”

            Illyrio held out hands to quiet him down. “I assure you, prince. I am only displaying your options.”

            Daeron scoffed at that and stumbled to his feet though Jorah attempted to pull him back. “I am not Visenya. You don’t get to decide my options. You don’t have that right!”

            “Your grace” Jorah grunted, reaching for him. “That is enough.”

            He shook her off and turned on her then. “Are you a part of this?”

            She denied it. “No. You should just calm down. Illyrio has been most gracious.”

            Daeron turned back to him with tears in his eyes. “Oh, yes. I have experienced his _grace_. Visenya is married to a monster who beats and rapes her and I run from more enemies than I’ve ever had before. The magister’s grace is so warm.”

            “I know you place great blame upon me and that brings me such heartache. I have arranged many marriages and alliances in my time. I never foresaw that the khal would treat you thus. For my failure to see it, I am deeply sorry and will grieve this until my dying days. I will know it as my greatest regret.”

            Daeron waved him off and turned to flop himself on the bed, dismissing his notion of remorse.

            “Believe it or not, your grace” Illyrio went on after some hesitation, “I was a sellsword in my youth. Now, I wield quite a bit of power in this fine city. Nobles and the prince himself seek my counsel before they do _anything_. I achieved this first by _marriage_. I know you must hate to hear this but it is the best way. No, the _only_ way. You must rely on their riches. Like I did. But you can make it more; make it your own. I see this in you. If _my_ sorry self can do this, I know _you_ can.”

            Daeron said nothing at first but then finally raised his head. “All my life, my sister taught me to be afraid of shadows. Shadows carry knives. There were shadows chasing us in Lys, Volantis, Braavos, Pentos. I’ve read so many stories and histories of my family and of the world. I loved those stories and studied them closely. They taught me to see the knife in your hand, magister. You have toyed with my sister’s life and mine own enough. Your attempt to pit us against each other or whatever it is you’re trying to do has failed. Just stop. No more. I refuse to play your game. I’ve seen what happens to those under your thumb. I’m a living example. So, tell them. Tell the nobles at your dinner party. Tell your slavers and whoever your correspondents are on the far corners of world. I, Daeron Targaryen, refuse to play.”

            Illyrio seemed stunned to silence.

            Daeron repeated himself once more. “Tell them!”

            Illyrio gave them a sad look and reclined his head. “You seem tired, my dear prince. Please. Get some rest. I bid you a good evening. Sweet Jorah, we will speak on the morrow.”

            He bowed and took his leave from the room.

            After he had left the room, Jorah turned and looked at Daeron. Daeron thought she looked upset but she said nothing.

            Daeron sighed. “I’m just so sick of it, Jorah.” He flinched, gesturing to his scarred body. “Look at me! Do I look a king to you?”

She paused and rose from the bed. “Good evening, your grace.” She gave a dip of her head and left the room as well.

He watched her go and sat there, reflecting over his past, trauma and all. He angrily smashed his good fist against his pillows and went to put his lamp out.

 

            While Illyrio was no longer downstairs, his party guests still were. They were still drinking, gossiping and even discussing alliances. Most decided to withdraw their bid unto Daeron Targaryen obviously. He was disrespectful, uncouth, and unworthy of their endeavors. Just as they were about to come to an agreement on this, Dothraki men approached the table and stood uncomfortably close to the backs of some of the seated magisters.

            “What is the meaning of this?” one of them demanded to know as he tried to get out. The rider shoved him and the chair back towards the table. Ko Pono, one of Khal Drogo’s chief lieutenants approached the magisters with several more bloody outriders in tow.

            “Evening, magisters” he greeted in heavily accented common tongue.

            “What is this aggression?” Another noble said, “Have you forgotten the pact?”

            “We have broken no pact” said Ko Pono as he reached and drank wine from the cup of the Prince of Pentos. The prince watched angrily but did nothing. His riders flung two detached Unsullied heads onto the dinner table, causing a stir among the guests. Pono finished the wine and gave a satisfied sigh before slamming it down before the prince. “Not yet.” He finished. “Now tell me, magisters. Where is the boy-king?”


End file.
